


Viking's Slave

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Historical AU, M/M, Magic, Potential dubious consent, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this kinkme_merlin prompt: Arthur enters a brothel just as a young boy's (Merlin) virginity is being auctioned out. Arthur outbids everyone. Up to potential author if it's out of kindness or lust or a mixture of both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viking's Slave

Autumn, 794

 

The snow is hard, compact, and the cold night air crystallises with every breath Arthur takes. 

He spurs his horse gently forward, hoof beat muffled by the snow coating the ground and turning it into a hard, uneven shell.

Billowy soft clouds encroach on the horizon, slowly churning and slipping lower, promising a snow storm. 

Behind him a craggy rock looms in the near darkness. 

On this rock stands the fortress Arthur's left behind. It's surrounded by a rampart of earth and stones guarded by three gates: one facing north, one south, and the third one angled towards the town.

The fortress sits like a silent guardian across the bay. It stands on an island, the water in between it and the scrap of road Arthur's riding along like a sheet of lead coloured darker by the night. 

A shallow harbour sheltering small, shallow draft boats is visible in the distance. 

Arthur's heard of it it time and again. The harbour is the reason why this settlement prospers. Why there's a chance for all of them. The fact that the boats have been back for a day or two, though, is what has brought him here specifically tonight of all nights. It's what has spurred him on. 

He wants to see for himself what the seafarers have brought back and find out whether what they say is true.

The lanterns of the establishment before him sway in the wind, casting their glow in patches, illuminating the snow melting around the much trampled entrance to a two storied, wattle-and-daub building.

Arthur dismounts and gives the horse's reins to the boy standing there without pulling down the hood of his cloak. Without even thinking about it, he hands the boy a coin. It's shiny and weighty – foreign – but good currency around these parts.

The boy gasps at it, disbelief painting the rounded eyes highlighted by the glow cast by the torch fixed to the outer wall behind him. 

Arthur nods his head stiffly to confirm the intent behind his gift and the boy leads the horse away with a jaunt to his step.

Arthur enters the building without any such enthusiasm.

Inside it's much warmer, a big fire thawing the limbs of those braving the harsh marine winds blowing outside.

In fact, it's warm enough to allow the shedding of some layers of clothing, yet Arthur doesn't take off his cloak, preferring to stand back and watch the seasoned seafarers carouse. 

Unobserved himself, he watches the serving girls flit this way and that, attending traders closing their bargains at the low wooden tables.

Beer and mead flood the tall tankards held up by the patrons. Laughter thunders.

The inebriation levels are high, but then alcohol is good to brace you against the cold of the coming winter nights.

Arthur picks one conversation out from the many. It holds his interest because of its very nature.

“The booty was good,” one of the men says. He's tall and almost as large as the door. His muscles bulge in ripples from under his tunic. His beard is long and as red as a forge fire. “Very good.”

His companion, a man as thick set as the first, says, “It had better have been. This was the last raid of the season. I doubt anyone will try taking to sea again.”

“We might have tried another.”

“In this weather?” the second man scoffs. “No, winter's coming earlier this year.”

“Winter wasn't so close on men's heels on the shores we raided,” says the man with the fiery beard. “There were still leaves on the trees on that fair island.”

“I will drink to longer summers.” Fiery beard's companion raises his glass and downs most of it. "And greener pastures."

“Yeah,” says fiery beard, though he doesn't imitate his friend. “Lucky bastards. At least we showed them our mettle. And we took all their surplus.” A leer features on fiery beard's fat lips. “And then some more.”

“If we didn't owe taxes to the king, it would be much better though, wouldn’t?" his friend says. "We'd have all the spoils.”

Arthur's jaw twitches and he grinds his teeth to stop it.

“It would be better, yes,” says fiery beard. “The king sat in his fortress all year. It seems to me the booty should be wholly ours.”

The conversation of the two men is interrupted by a third one appearing on a raised dais at the far end of the communal room. 

This third man is large and has the fat, rolling belly typical of a trader. His clothes are rich, fabrics from the orient and gold thread from the south marking them out as outstanding. They tell Arthur that his business is flourishing enough for him to be able to allow himself luxuries not affordable to common men.

The trader shoves a prisoner forward and clears his throat. “Hail all, gentle patrons, men of Birka,” he says. “ And well met.”

Cheers and wolf whistles pollute the air. “Cut it short, Bergvid,” someone says.

“I see that you're impatient,” the trader, Bergvid, says. “Since such is the case, let me declare the autumn auction open.”

There's more catcalls but they all die down as the first prisoner on sale is put on display.

The man being sold has hair the colour of ginger roots and wears a habit that looks much like a sack. It's made of coarse brown wool and comes with a cowl that would cover the man's face completely when lifted. Around his neck a leather thong is looped. A simple cross is attached to its end. The cross isn't wooden; it's silver rather, and stylised. It's a surprise to see the man's been allowed to keep it since the item must have been of some value.

The trader opens his mouth again, starting to auction the man with the cross off to the highest bidder. Apparently cross-man can read and write in Latin and that's why the bauble around his neck is so significant. 

Arthur doesn't put any stock in Latin and lets himself be distracted away from the goings on. It's just a cacophony of voices, after all, people bidding higher and higher in an attempt to secure a commodity.

He's more interested in the seditious talk so liberally spewed forth than in the trading going on. The latter's small fish and no worse than he previously thought, less worrying than he was led to believe. 

Deciding to stay a while and discover more of what's being said, he stops one of the serving girls in her tracks and asks her for a glass of beer.

She eyes him warily, flicking a glance at the empty tables and seats around him and then at the hood covering his features. 

He pays her on the spot and she seems to take that as a guarantee he won't cause trouble while in here.

A while later she comes back with his drink. The man with the cross has meanwhile been sold to a wealthy farmer from the mainland. 

As Arthur sips at his drink, a parade of girls is sold to this or that bidder, but he doesn't pay any attention to the process. If anything he doesn't look too closely, unable to pin down the reason for his skittishness, for his shying away from all thoughts of the proceedings.

Yet when a young man is shoved on to the dais Arthur puts his drink down and takes a few steps closer. 

The young man is tall and lithe but not built like a warrior at all. There's not enough muscle definition for that. His hair is as dark as midnight and his eyes are the colour of the sea Arthur's roved time and time again. Perhaps it's closer to the colour of the seas lapping at the shores of Arthur's homeland than that surrounding the young man's own, but it's still evokes images of an ocean storm. 

It's all winter shades rather than a lighter summer blue. Arthur finds it enticing, a call to his roots. Those eyes are an epic song all on their own.

The young man, this new captive presented to them, is well proportioned; his shoulders are set wide and his hands are big and strong though there's something about him that screams famine too. 

There's a hollowness to his cheeks and a gauntness to the rest of him that suggests he's not eaten much lately. And that on top of a life likely spent in poverty.

Arthur suspects he wasn't fed much during his journey over either. 

Traders wouldn't waste good food on him unless they were assured of his fetching a good price. And they couldn't be. The young man wasn't a beautiful girl sure to attract the eyes of potential buyers and neither was he a lord's son. 

Yet, aside from the spareness of him, this young man's body looks naturally gangly too. Like a boy's. He's past puberty certainly, but he isn't a seasoned man yet. Arthur thinks he must have lived some seventeen summers or thereabouts.

The young man is wearing a light tunic that will be no good to weather the coming months and threadbare trousers that must have seen many a summer.

Yet the tunic is more than enough to keep him warm in this enclosed space to the point that he's rolled up his sleeves, revealing something to Arthur's eyes that pricks Arthur's curiosity.

An intricate design of the kind's Arthur's never seen covers half the inside of the young man's left wrist. 

Arthur's eyes are drawn to it because the young man periodically scratches at it, making the skin redden and break in places. One of the goðar glares at him for so doing, or at least does so in so far as the pride of his office allows. 

The young man glares right back, not caring one whit about the importance of the goðar's role and function. 

There's a stubbornness involved in the action, a determination painted across his features, that makes Arthur smile beneath his hood and stop in his tracks. It makes him look. Makes him observe. 

Arthur tries to consider all that is uncanny about the young man – that fragility of his coupled with a riotous irreverence that makes him pull faces at the priesthood – and emerges more curious than before. 

He wonders at the significance of the symbol etched raw on the young man's wrist, traced in whorls and patterns that look like a secret alphabet, mystical. He tries to divine the secret behind the veil of rage that covers the face of the goðar and finds he wants to know more. Find out everything there is to know.

In a way his curiosity is at least partially satisfied the moment Bergvid pushes the young man forward. “This boy may look fragile to you and no good as a household slave,” he begins in a tone that suggests that of a confidence whispered among friends. “But I can assure you, there's more to this young slave than meets the eye. He's hardy.” 

Arthur doubts that though the young man is surely healthy enough if he's survived the crossing and the bad weather that has pummelled Arthur's land lately.

“And young. Free of disease. He was sheltered by the people sacred to his religion and is therefore untouched.” Bergvid winks predatorily. It makes Arthur's blood boil somehow.

Laughter echoes around the crowded room. Most patrons clearly don't believe in Bergvid assertions. 

The doubt is voiced by fiery beard's companion himself: “You mean to say that that boy is a virgin? Hard to prove and hard to believe.”

“He is,” the trader insists. “He was raised by the men of the cross. He was a labourer on their lands. And sheltered by them.”

“And how do I know your story's true, Bergvid?” another patron says. “The boy doesn't speak our language and can't vouch for his purity. One way or the other.”

“The man with the cross admitted as much,” Bergvid says promptly. “You can ask him yourself.”

“Again, in what language, Bergvid?” the same man from before asks.

Bergivd's eyebrow twitches in annoyance at the impertinence, but he says nonetheless, “Latin.”

Almost all the men in the room burs out laughing at the notion of Bergvid knowing that rare language, but Arthur almost believes him. 

What he believes in, though, are not the lies the wily trader is spitting, but the evidence supplied by his own eyes. He credits the young man's confusion at what's going on around him. What he believes in is the innocence in his eyes. The one that tinges his scowls and the way he carries himself.

When Bergvid quiets the chorus of protesting voices by declaring open the bidding, Arthur fists clench tightly. Without having meant to he takes a step forward.

The first man to bid is fiery beard's companion. “Two pieces of silver,” he bellows as if to make sure everybody can hear.

Bergvid, the trader, looks almost content with the prospect of obtaining that sum until another man rises from his corner seat and says, “Four.”

This seems to bolster fiery beard's friend, make him stubborn, for he says, “Six silver pieces,” sounding as if he thinks that's the clincher.

For a brief moment it seems to be but then his adversary sticks his chest out and roars, “Ten.”

A hush falls over the communal room. Ten's a lot for a gangly young man whose only allure resides in the fact that tales have been told about his supposed purity. He probably couldn't weather a northern winter, not if he's made to serve, and unlike the man bearing the cross he's not even a commodity because of his learning.

Bergvid's eyes bulge at the sum and he's clearly about to open his mouth and declare the boy sold when Arthur steps forward. “Twenty pieces of hacked silver.”

Buzzing voices crackle up, a storm of murmurs. Arthur ignores them, smiles to himself, until the man in the corner speaks up again and Arthur's smile fades.

“Twenty-five,” Arthur's rival says, determined to get his way. His shoulders are squared as if for battle and his head is held up high.

Twenty-five is more than Arthur would have thought it necessary to pay. Up to now he's held fast in the belief that he'd get away with less. Twenty-five would have been too much but for the sparkle in corner man's eyes, the sparkle that's fired Arthur's desire to best him. “I'll make it thirty-five.”

One of the serving girls gasps, “You can get two household servants for that much silver. You can get anything you want from me for that much silver.”

Arthur fully expects corner man to back out of a deal that can't be convenient to him, but he doesn't, offering up to thirty pieces of silver. 

Now they've surely got everyone's eyes on them. Even those who have thus far seemed not to care have by now switched their attention on to them, dropping their idle chatter and gossip like they would thought of charity in a famine year.

Even the object of their contention has taken note, even though it's clear he doesn't understand much of their language. 

Having an audience bolsters corner man. He bows to his friends and acquaintances and says, “Forty.”

From then on it's a see-sawing game of one-upmanship, spurred by the catcalls of the patrons who needle corner man about his virility. Their whispering crescendoes the moment corner man looks likely to give up on his enterprise. Arthur's instincts also tell him to prolong the game.

So, Arthur perseveres even though he knows he shouldn’t. Fifty. Fifty-five. Sixty. 

At last corner man seems to realise he's met his match. Unfortunately, the jeering laughter of a serving girl is just what's needed to egg him on again. Sixty-five, he belches out, smirking and satisfied.

Curious eyes settle over Arthur, waiting for the outcome. What they think of as the end of the game. It's clear they're wondering whether he'll meet such a bid.

Arthur watches from beneath his hood, reads the speculation and curiosity hidden behind the patrons' mocking gaze. It's not worth it, he tells himself, or he does until he catches a glimpse of the young man that set the auction escalating.

He's nervous; he's caught wind of something. His eyes are wide with it. His mouth settles into a pinched line Arthur doesn't care to see on him. It's a determined, dry line. It's wry and there's little hope to it. There's a touch of defiance to it too, a touch of bravery, and that sways Arthur.

“A hundred,” Arthur says, taking a pouch out of his coat and a gold chain from off his neck. “That's my last word on it.” He strides forward till he's taken position mid room between the fireplace and his auction rival. 

This way most of the patrons are turned towards him. By widening his stance Arthur makes sure he has all eyes on him. He pulls his hood down.

Murmurs like hail pattering on the ground rise, mixed as they are with awed gasps and choked off curses.

Bergivd pales, retreating and hiding behind the man he wanted to sell. 

As for corner man, he bows, cheeks red, shoulders slumping. “I couldn't have known,” he says.

Arthur waves his hand at him to silence him and by and large obtains the wished for result. The serving girls keep their eyes humbly cast down and so, on reflection, do all but the most curious patrons.

The young slave on the dais might not have grasped the ins and outs of the goings on but he makes a quick study of the roomful of people. His gaze falls on Arthur then, his eyes boring in on him, as if he, too, is wondering why Arthur's fixating on him. 

He also looks dead set upon deciphering Arthur and the change in the patrons' behaviour, though it looks as though he's baffled.

Arthur holds the young man's gaze, doesn't back down, finds his eyebrow shooting up of its own volition. 

The young man nods to himself, nods at the room. His quick grasp of the situation is something Arthur appreciates for what it is. What he appreciates far more is the young man's unwillingness to stop defying him with his eyes. He must know, mustn't he? He must have an inkling, given that everyone else has dropped their gaze. 

His body language says as much.

And yet Arthur's defiant young man doesn't take the hint, but does as he pleases, making Arthur walk up to the dais. 

“Come down,” Arthur says, sure the young man's hiding behind a wall of some kind the moment he smiles vacantly at the floor. He may not have understood the words but he must have got the meaning conveyed by Arthur's tone and gestures. He's playing stupid.

Bergvid mutters a handful of words in another language, one of those he must have learnt by virtue of his trade, and the young man rolls his eyes at the injunction. Now that he can't hide behind his ignorance of Arthur's language, he does jump down 

It's a light clumsy hop, pulled with the imperfect coordination only a boy can achieve. 

Arthur nearly smiles at it though he knows he oughtn't. He avoids breaking into some kind of inappropriate grin by asking, and in a very hesitant display of Latin elocution, “ _Quid est teum nōmen?”_

He hopes it will get through, thinking it must if the young man was really partially raised by men like the one bearing the cross. Those people are usually valued for their knowledge.

A light flickers in the young man's eyes, understanding. “Merlin,” he says, an odd name pronounced in a yet odder way.

Arthur's trying to get acquainted with the rounder vowels that roll off Merlin's tongue when Bergvid steps between them. “My--”

Arthur cuts him off. “Yes?”

“As for the payment...”

“I left your silver on the table,” Arthur says drily, curtly. “That golden chain alone is worth more than I bid.”

“It should be appraised by a master goldsmith, my--”

“Then have it appraised,” Arthur snaps. “And let me know if you find it doesn't cover the price I offered to pay.”

Bergvid stumbles over his words, saying, “I didn't mean to imply you'd renege your word.”

“Then don't,” says Arthur. “Now have my horse brought round. I mean to take my--” He eyes Merlin and finds he has no definition for him yet. None that would suit. “I mean to make my way back.”

Bergvid jumps down the dais, all a-bustle all of a sudden. He runs out, yelling for his stable boy to come down. 

Arthur follows the action with his eyes only to find he's still the object of most of the patrons' close scrutiny. He makes a study of not letting that affect him.

Nudging Merlin forward, he gains the exit, where he's hit by a cutting gust of wind. The kind of lashing that is the precursor of a proper storm, one good enough to shake the abodes of the gods off their foundations. 

He ducks his head to better face it and even while so doing he can't help but overhear the hiss that Merlin spits out. 

As well he should, considering that he's wearing only the tunic and threadbare trousers he'd had on inside, where it had been much cosier. 

To the sound of chattering teeth, Arthur sheds his cloak to give it to Merlin. 

Merlin looks at it as if it might bite him, then he throws a surreptitious glance at the stables building and one at the winding road the coasts the waterway. 

Arthur says, “Not a good idea, believe me, Merlin.” He drawls the name on purpose to make the words and the meaning behind them better sink in.

Merlin's obstinate moue comes back with a vengeance but it dissolves to give way to a shoulder hunch. He bows his head and accepts the cloak, muttering one single word. It looks good on him.

Before more words can be unilaterally exchanged on the subject, Bergvid comes back, leading the horse by the bridle himself instead of leaving the task to the trained hands of one of his stable boys.

“Help Merlin up,” Arthur tells him, watching the man huff in protest. 

Arthur gives him a steely glance and Bergvid obeys though his cheeks are still pink and a mumble of complaint falls off his lips.

“Thank you,” Arthur adds with no warmth to his voice. He mounts behind Merlin and without bothering to pay attention to the trader he spurs the horse to a trot. It makes Merlin wince bodily and curse in a tongue Arthur's never head before.

“You don't like riding, do you?” Arthur says. “Or don't know how to.”

Merlin says something in return and Arthur can only pick out a word or two of Latin out of the many Merlin utters. The tentative Latin is mixed up with that strange vernacular of Merlin's that Arthur might have sussed out had he not been focusing on riding his horse to safety, carefully steering it away from frozen mud patches that might have sent it skittering, fighting to find purchase.

It takes them longer than it would have in summer but they make the harbour on the other side of the island before it's inordinately late. 

From the stone jetty, they get ferried onto the fortress island, the smell of the channel water saturating the air. 

Arthur smells it deeply, feeling the breeze play in his hair, wreak havoc with it. It's always been this way out here on the channel, and always welcome, despite the chill dampness that threatens to freeze his very marrow. It's home.

There's someone else this place isn't a home to, though. Merlin is silent, watching the water as if it's both a fearsome element and a representative of freedom. 

Arthur doesn't touch him or sat anything though he can guess what thought might be darting through Merlin's mind. 

He waits until the fortress looms before them, then says, “Plunging in those waters is death. Believe me.”

Merlin forces his jaw closed with a snap. And when the fortress comes to dwarf the horizon, he tilts his head back to take it wholly in.

At his blanching face, Arthur's says stumblingly, “ _Id est regiam regis,_ ” trying his best to make Merlin understand that it's a palace he's going to, not a prison. 

He's not sure Merlin understands the wording itself but he seems to grasp what the idea entails well enough. He only shrinks when the wooden bridge by the timber gate is lowered and they make it past the ramparts and check points, guards lowering their weapons as Arthur's horse thunders past, hoofs beating savagely on the hard ground.

In the courtyard, Arthur dismounts before the horse has quite halted in its tracks, He waits for Merlin to fight his way off the saddle too with a half bitten off smile. 

When Merlin's feet hit the ground Arthur hands the reins to one of the palace attendants. “Take good care of him,” he says, patting the horse's withers and only leaving when he's given a smile and nod in return.

The smile he's awarded by the passing attendant appears to be enough to brace Merlin into following him, though Merlin almost unconsciously slows his step.

Up a staircase in the inner keep they go and then walk down a dark hallway that smells like the sap burning in the torches. 

Arthur tramps down it, footfall shrouded by fragrant rushes, till they come to a set of double doors.

Merlin slows to a halt. 

With a grandiose gesture Arthur throws open the door and signals to Merlin to go inside.

 

****

 

Merlin steps inside, wandering into the room looking wide-eyed and more than a little lost. 

He comes to a halt in the middle of it and cranes his head this way and that as if to take in everything that's on display. His eyes linger on the swords crossed over the fireplace and on the weapons rack Arthur keeps by the wall opposite.

He gapes at the heavy curtains, designed to keep the cold out, and at the bed with its sturdy wooden structure and costly hangings. His eyes dwell on it with what looks like awe at first until the awe turns to tangible mistrust.

Arthur closes the door behind him both to keep out the draught and to make this conversation as private as possible. “I hope you won't find it too horrible here,” he says with something like a smile. He's not good at honest smiles not aimed at courting allies but he gives it a try all the same. 

He wants to wipe that doubting look from Merlin's face. “It's not too bad of a place to be. Though, of course, that depends on what you're comparing it to.” 

He wonders over to Merlin, making gestures to accompany his questions. “Where is it that you come from?" he asks with a quirk of his eyebrow. "The man in Bergvid's establishment mentioned an island?”

Merlin doesn't seem to understand Arthur's admittedly empty ice-breaking babble and merely shivers in place. 

Arthur is standing a step away from Merlin when he says, “Wherever you're from, it must be warmer than it is over here. It's not that much of an impossibility, is it? Here it's particularly cold and draughty.”

Arthur scans Merlin for size. Some of his own clothes might fit him though, given the span of Merlin's pleasantly narrow hips, not all of them for sure. A few more garments can be got at easily enough, however. 

The fortress is big, and though the garrison doesn't reside here all year round, enough of the King's followers inhabit it at this time to make the finding of sizeable clothes an easy task.

Merlin throws his shoulders back at the assessment, as if daring him. To do what Arthur doesn't know. There's still more than a measure of unease to Merlin's actions that suggests his dare isn't exactly of the accepting kind. He looks leery; he shifts on the balls of his feet.

He scratches at his tattoo in a way that drives gouges into the skin, ruby red droplets of blood surfacing like dew on a flower stem. 

Arthur intercepts his arm, fingers closing around Merlin's wrist to prevent further damage. As a matter of fact, he exercises enough pressure to get Merlin to stop. 

Only when Merlin shoves him backwards with a strength Arthur wouldn't have suspected he had, does Arthur realise that it's the wrong thing to have done.

As Arthur stumbles back, Merlin leaps across the room to get at the parade swords the rack holds. 

He breaks one free of its stay it and wields it before him like a stick. It's all that's needed to tell Arthur he doesn't know how to use it. He was never even remotely trained.

“Merlin,” says Arthur more stiffly, “put that sword down.”

For a moment Arthur thinks that Merlin might have got at least the bare gist of Arthur's words, but then it becomes clear that he hasn't, for he attacks. 

On the one hand Arthur realises he's probably spooked Merlin somehow, though he can't tell how. On the other he can't even be sure that's the truth of it. He can't ascribe malice to Merlin actions; fear's likely moving him. It's in the look in his eyes and in the cast his features take. Yet he doesn't know Merlin too well and he might be mistaken. 

Prudence always pays. Avoiding Merlin's all-over-the-place swings, he jumps backwards.

“I don't mean you any harm,” he yells, putting the table between them. 

Unfortunately, Merlin doesn't stop to listen; he just charges at Arthur. 

Arthur wants nothing more than to be able to set Merlin at ease. But it's not so easy thanks to the language barrier. 

Stupid of him to think that intent would carry via his tone. But for the life of him Arthur can't remember any Latin at all in his current predicament. He's too busy dodging sword strokes to do so. And Latin words are the only ones that don't seem to fly right over Merlin's head.

Arthur doesn't really want to do it – doesn't want to give Merlin more reason to fear him – but Merlin's clumsy though dedicated attack must be put a stop to.

He tumbles a chair so it crashes between them. Merlin will have to hack at it to advance and while he's busy that way he won't be raining angry blows at Arthur.

Using this window of opportunity, Arthur darts away from the partial shelter provided by the table, making a jab for the weapons rack. 

He unsheathes a training sword in time to parry one of Merlin's clumsy but decidedly dangerous lunges. 

Their swords cross with a screech of metal. “Calm down,” Arthur says over the impasse. “Merlin, I don't mean you any--” But it's no good. He doubts Merlin's picking up on his actual words and his tone is too fevered and high-pitched to be soothing.

Arthur kicks at Merlin, if only to put space between them. 

Merlin falls back, crouching a little. He's breathing fast, beads of sweat starting to break on his upper lip. He looks past Arthur and at the door that thanks to their dancing around now stands behind him. He looks at it with a fierce longing that tells Arthur everything there is to know.

Arthur is prepared when Merlin comes at him, swinging his sword at his head. He bends down in time to avoid being hit, saying, “Merlin, stop it.” 

The only way to stop him, though, is to disarm him. They can talk later when Merlin isn't wielding a bared blade. Besides Arthur's warrior instinct is telling him that reason can only be applied when weapons are safely put away. He dodges a second sword thrust that is nothing but mistimed and weak.

He catches it and responds by swiping his sword downwards, gearing for Merlin's legs in a blow that's supposed to be glancing. 

Instinctively, Merlin jumps out of the way, but Arthur's cut him, however unwillingly.

Blood blooms on Merlin's leg through the rip in his trousers, colouring them a shade darker all around. 

Arthur curses, bile already rising to his mouth at the sight of the wound he's inflicted, but he can't drop his sword. Not when Merlin's bringing his around. 

Arthur blocks him with his ease. 

Merlin's using most of his strength to back up his thrusts and lunges, but since he doesn't know how to channel it there's not much heft to his blows. 

When their swords connect, Arthur rotates his wrists into a move he was taught as a kid, twisting his sword and pulling Merlin's with it. If he manages the move as he ought, he'll disarm Merlin. 

They're close now, wrapped in what would have looked like an embrace but for the blades between them. They're breathing each other's breath; Merlin's biting on his lower lip in concentration, blood chasing down the side of his shin. He's beautifully wild and touchingly afraid.

“ _Mé ná sceng mael_ ,” Merlin says with passion and fury enough to command a new dawn.

The only word Arthur catches is the one for 'slave' because he knows many variations of it. 

Before Arthur can say he's sorry for hurting him, the clanking steps and martial calls of the guards on duty drown his and Merlin's syncopated breathing. The guards are loud, steel cluttering as they advance, voices a ricocheting bellow more powerful than a roll of thunder.

Merlin's eyes go wide; his eyes fly to the door. He drops his weapon and Arthur his guard. 

When the doors are kicked open Merlin looks at him with eyes bitter with the weight of betrayal. Quick as thought, he bends, unsheathes the dagger Arthur keeps fastened to his belt and rams it into Arthur's side.

Pain robs Arthur of his breath and he topples backwards, landing in a sprawl just in time for the palace guards to see him fall. “Sire,” one yells.

As Arthur's hand goes to cup the wound at his side, the guards seize Merlin. Two grab him by the shoulders; another kicks at his wounded leg, making him growl like a wolf at bay.

Arthur is still hissing in pain as they drive Merlin to his knees by way of a choke-hold and snap his wrist backwards, disarming him.

The dagger, tip covered in blood, drops to the floor, Merlin's nerveless fingers spasming.

“Stop,” Arthur thinks he's shouting, though the sound comes out feebler than he intended it to be. “Stop. It's not what it looks like. Merlin's not--” but by then the shock of the wound has taken over.

Cold sweat blankets him like swaddling clothes and his visions blackens.

Arthur tries to focus with all his might, needing to put things to right. It's his duty. To himself and to Merlin, whom he's dragged here only to be hurt. But he can't. His senses are going. It's like a night without stars inside his head.

“Stop that,” he says, realising it's mostly to himself. “Stop.”

The last thing he hears before dizziness overwhelms him and he tumbles into sleep is his father's shouting, “What in the name of the gods is happening here?”

And then all lights and sound go out.

 

**** 

 

Arthur drifts in and out of consciousness, vision coming and going.

At one time it's clearly morning and there's a host of people around his bed. At other times torches burn bright in their sconces and it's only his father that he recognises by his bedside.

And then the process begins again. One minute he becomes aware of his surroundings, the next he plunges into a spiral of blackness. 

Hazy images swirl past and he isn't sure whether they're reality or the products of a restless sleep. He's awakened by the sound of people coming and going. Those are his time markers.   
At times he's shrinking in on himself, all notion of an outside world dimming. At others it's better and he can tell what's happened and who's with him.

His mouth feels dry, a twisted knot of heat growing and growing in his throat. His tongue is crowding his mouth, as though it were so swollen it was brushing his palate. He can tell that isn't strictly true, but it isn't a pleasant sensation either. 

His body is heavy. His head drums to its own insistent beat. It's like war hammers being sounded on a shield. Loud like a war horn. When he moves a little to his right, his side flares up with pain. So he stays put and tries to get his breathing back under control. 

The body is the house of the mind, of a warrior's will. It can be told what to do.

Besides if he just finds the right position, the pain will go away. 

He does and falls asleep for the effort.

This happens a few more times. Sometimes he's alone, but more often than not he isn't. 

As more time passes, though he can't tell how long that is, his condition seems to improve, at least in so far as the radiating burning at his side is concerned. 

There's some pain now but it doesn't shoot out unless he tries to shift onto his side or sit up. Though when it does, it throws him over the edge of his sleepy stupor and makes him re-emerge into awareness, restless wakefulness. 

He blinks twice and shapes shift into focus. His vision has cleared vastly since the last time he opened his eyes. 

His father bolts upright, taking Arthur's hand. “Arthur,” he says.

Arthur makes a croaking plea for water, which his father sees through himself. Instead of calling on a slave, he pours the water himself, one hand shaking, the other steadily cupped around the jug.

He passes Arthur the cup he's filled to the brim. 

Arthur does his best to sit up without a grimace. His father is watching and that's the least he can do to prove himself worthy. Complaining has never befit a warrior.

He grabs the wooden cup resolutely and takes a big pull of water, letting it refresh his scorched mouth. 

When Arthur's fingers shake, Father helps him to keep them tightly wrapped around the drinking vessel. 

Arthur drinks fast and, to his shame, some of the liquid dribbles out of his mouth. 

His father almost moves to help him but a shared look stops him. He simply takes the cup from Arthur and sits while Arthur wipes at his mouth with the sleeve of his... sleeping garment.

Questions crowd his mind and jostle for precedence. “How long have I lain here?” is the one he settles on because it'll clear up the rest.

“A week,” says Father. “You had a fever but Alice bound your wound. She had a fire lit in her workshop and warmed water to wash and clean it. She put a stone pot on the hearth and stirred some herbs together, saying spells. It looked mysterious but she assured me it was for the best.”

Father's voice never shakes or wavers. His tone is that of a military report. 

“Her intent became thankfully more obvious a while later. She'd made a compress of those herbs and promised the fever would be gone within seven days. And it has.” 

Arthur is sure the physician wouldn't have survived to see another day if she'd been mistaken. He's glad his body has responded in time to save Alice. The thought of the consequences of Alice's failing, however, reminds him of someone else who may be made to bear the blame for his condition and ushers in a new slew of questions.

“What of Merlin?”

His father arches a querying eyebrow. “Who?”

“My slave,” says Arthur. “I-- The one who--”

“The boy who nearly killed you, you mean?” Father thunders, understanding. “That person?”

“Yes.” Arthur makes an effort to sit even though it makes him break into a sweat. “Him. What.--” He doesn't dare ask what was done to him so he settles for, “Where is he?” 

Arthur holds his breath and waits for his father's answer, dreading it in part.

It comes in a short sentence. “In the dungeons.”

Arthur exhales. “Then get him out of there, Father.” 

He winces when he tries to resettle and realises that the show of pain won't be conducive to getting him what he wants. It merely seems to emphasise the nature of Merlin's crimes and his own weakness. 

“He doesn't know our language, Father,” he explains on a raspy breath. “He thought... I don't know what he thought.” He pushes his head back on the pillow, nape cradled by their softness. “But I'm sure he wasn't intending to harm anyone until I grabbed him by the wrist.”

“You mean to say it was a misunderstanding?” Father says. “That you bought a thrall I knew nothing about while you were supposed to be listening in for clues as to whether the harbour merchants were paying their custom duties, and that he wounded you out of--”

Arthur cut him off, “Self-defence,” says Arthur. 

“You're a Jarl, Arthur,” says Father. “The king's son. He shouldn't have laid a hand on you irrespectively of what he thought you were about to do to him.”

That's a commonly held truth Arthur prefers not to acknowledge. The class system's always been there but Arthur, never confronted with it like he is being now, has never paid it any heed. Naturally he's a warlord's son, a king's son now, and he's proud but he's never bothered with the rest. He tries to persuade his father using a different tactic.

“But that shows he's got mettle,” Arthur tells Father. “To try and defend himself when he had to know he was outnumbered was a brave thing to do. I thought we appreciated bravery above all. That that's the biggest virtue a man can possess.”

Father nods. “A man, Arthur. That's the biggest virtue a man may show, not a thrall. There's no room for virtue in a slave.”

Seeing as his father wouldn't appreciate Arthur insisting on that line of reasoning, Arthur resolves to use another one. He must be quick for he already feels tired and splitting hairs with his father is proving exhausting. “He's mine. I bought him for dear money--” He isn't supposed to say that. The amount he spent on Merlin was unconscionable. His control is slipping. “And I won't have him harmed.”

Though his father is frowning and holding himself stiffly in his chair, he mellows somewhat. “Since he hasn't killed you, he might be spared. I'm sure he can be employed somewhere.” Father's voice is as cold as it gets. “I suppose we can pack him off to our estates, somewhere he can help build walls, or spread muck or help with the crops. Peat digging would also be a suitable activity for a disgraced slave.”

A winter spent doing any of that in a new but certainly punishing climate would likely kill Merlin. 

Real worry gnaws at Arthur as he pushes off the covers that pin him down and attempts to get vertical. 

A spell of dizziness swipes through him, disorientating him for an instant. The floorboards seem to be coming at him; his legs are both heavy and frail and he only stands to falter and trip.

His father catches him before he can fall, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder and his arm around his middle. “It's not just, Father. It's not right. My honour is at stake.” 

He could be much more eloquent but he's going under, a heaviness coming over him that is pretty much like the drowsiness that follows too many sleepless nights.

He's aware of leaning into his father though he doesn't want to. He's aware of his father walking him backwards to the bed and tucking him in a way he's never done before, not even when Arthur was so small he didn't make it past his knee.

“Father,” he says. “Fa--”

But Father quiets him. “A warrior knows when to rest.”

Arthur wants to protest, not really knowing what he wants to rail against anymore. He's forgotten. 

“Father,” he says because he's sure he has a point, was making a point before that dizzy spell overcame him. 

Father answers him by ordering him not to fret since fretting isn't a family trait. “Understood?”

Arthur would nod, but he feels too sleepy to.

 

****

 

When Arthur wakes it's to find Merlin by his side. 

It's undeniably the same man he bought what seems like yesterday though a week has passed. 

And yet Merlin's not the same already. 

The first change that catches Arthur's eyes concerns Merlin's hair. It's been cropped short, very short. It's cut close to the sides and to the back of his neck so that just a black fuzz covers his scalp, a more naked patch here and there showing where the razor slipped. 

Merlin's ears look infinitely bigger as a result, his features more decisive and striking, though there's a certain childlike quality to his appearance athat mitigates the harshness of his cut-glass features.

With his shorn locks, he looks like a castigated boy now and that pushes Arthur's heart to his throat.

Merlins's also wearing a metal collar around his neck, a clear sigil of his thrall. 

The two elements, combined, denounce him as a slave. 

On the upside, Merlin's been given fresh breeches and a new tunic. Still too little to face the upcoming weather, but he's more covered than before.

Arthur props himself up on an elbow and tentatively says, “Hello.”

It's his safest bet after what happened. 

Merlin, head bowed, looks up from under his lashes. At first he wears a chastised look and no wonder. His wrists bear the mark of chains and Arthur can't think he was treated too well down in the dungeons – not after what he was accused of nearly doing – though he bears no bruises or marks but for those of the shackles. 

It's not all bad, however.

Bandage bands stick out from under the hem of his trousers and this means that somebody has bothered to patch him up. He's the worse for wear but not horribly so, although the dark circles under his eyes speak of sleep deprivation.

“I am sorry,” Merlin says tentatively, trying the words out. “Sorry,” he repeats for emphasis.

Arthur leans forward. “You understand me?”

Merlin continues talking, but he reverts to his own idiom and Arthur can't understand him anymore, proving Merlin's initial declaration was nothing more than a phrase learnt by heart. 

Merlin, though, is babbling fervently on, undaunted by Arthur's slumping shoulders. 

Merlin's looking like whatever he's saying matters to him. Words tumble out of him unrestrained, one on top of the other. He's following them with gestures that Arthur thinks are supposed to clarify his meaning.

In a guise they do. Merlin mimics their fight; he eyes the door, “ _Custodes_ ,” he says, switching to a Latin word Arthur does know. “ _Melius est cavere_.”

“It's better to be on... your guard?” Arthur tries to tranlsate, wishing old Gaius were here. Coming from the South as he does he's more than well versed in the old tongue of those parts. But Gaius is on the mainland now, looking after one of Father's poorest estates.

Merlin nods, though what incites his nodding is still a mystery to Arthur. 

“Guard,” Merlin says, circumspectly, trying the word on for size. 

Arthur is so happy at that scant result at communication that he pushes himself to a sitting position. Mistake. Pain washes over him. It makes him grit his teeth and sweat break on his forehead. 

Merlin must have noticed for he jumps forward, pressing a piece of cloth to side. “ _Mé rigénsam ón cuccut,_ ” he says and whatever that means Merlin's tone is soothing. 

He picks up another cloth and this one is wet and cool when Merlin presses it to his brow and face. Arthur gasps when Merlin wets his lips with it.

Arthur grabs Merlin's wrist. It's not to stop him but to convey just how much he relishes this, to make him go slowly. 

For a second Merlin stiffens but he reads Arthur's eyes and whatever he finds in them is enough to make him persist in the task. 

He continues tending to Arthur, wetting his lips till Arthur sighs with it. When he's done with that he fastens the bandage around Arthur's middle as though he knows what he's doing. To top it all of he gives him spiced water to drink.

Some servant or other has put a pile of blankets on the chest stacked against the wall. When Arthur sinks back on the pillows, Merlin sees fit to cover him with the whole pile though there's a fire going and Arthur's night shirt is of a sturdy material designed to keep one warm during the harshest seasons.

“There's no need to drown me in blankets, Merlin,” Arthur says, laughing because this is ridiculous. He's a warrior. Not a sickly child. “Merlin, stop. It's not even winter yet.”

Arthur's laughter makes Merlin pause, arch an eyebrow, stop battling Arthur for control of the blankets and then bubble into laughter.

The sound's good humoured and sincere, a far cry from Merlin's guarded looks from the day Arthur bought him. With the laughter, Merlin's eyes nearly disappear into the folds of those wrinkles that form at their corners. He bows his shoulders, holding his middle for all the shaking he's doing.

It makes Arthur glad to see that Merlin isn't so emotionally hurt that he can still find it in himself to give in to merriment. 

His journey here must have been more than simply unpleasant and the rest that's happened, imprisonment included, doesn't really make for happiness.

Arthur's content to see that Merlin's spirit hasn't been stamped out of him.

After a while they settle, the crackling of the fire framing their words and their silent pauses.

“Does your leg hurt?” Arthur asks after one of those silences. “I shouldn't have injured you, You're mine and I did you a disservice. You didn't deserve any of that.” His eyes go to Merlin's leg and Merlin understands. Literally shrugs it off.

Seeing as they're managing to communicate, Arthur asks more questions. “Where did you learn to say 'sorry'?”

He gets no answer aside from a head tilt. 

He tries again, choosing a different subject. “Talk to me about your homeland.”

Merlin answers though Arthur doubts his answer is pertinent to Arthur's question. 

Mostly, Merlin talks in quiet, lilting tones that make one dream. Dream of far away places where the land blooms into greens and golds and the sun peeks out of the sky and paints the whole world bright. 

Mostly, he chatters as if to himself though he clearly never forgets that Arthur's there too.

It's not really an exchange. Merlin could be talking about farming pigs while Arthur's asking him about his native shores. For all that Arthur knows, Merlin's completely off topic, but he's giving Arthur something of himself, and Arthur appreciates the effort. 

All the while Merlin proves himself ready to tend to him at the smallest sign of Arthur discomfort, looking panicked and wide-eyed when some drops of blood stain the gauze making up Arthur's bandages.

To stop him from fussing, Arthur forces Merlin to sit on the bed and Merlin goes, settles down, biting on his lip in a fashion that will leave tiny marks. 

Arthur seeks to meet his gaze, and when Merlin locks eyes with him, Arthur holds it. “What happened is not your fault,” he says, wishing for it to sink. “Truly. I should have acted differently. And even if it was your fault you have my forgiveness.”

Merlin's blank face says that he hasn't understood any of that. 

Arthur sighs, gathers his scant knowledge of Latin around him, and, partly quoting a poem, asks him to, “ _Narra mihi patriam tuam,_ ” and Merlin does speak about his homeland, a place he calls Brega, though not in any language Arthur gets, reprising his former tattling with more vigour than before. 

His cadence lulls Arthur into drowsiness.

Before Arthur falls asleep, he hears Merlin pronounce a few more words that are distinct from the rest. They sound like a vow. 

But maybe Arthur's wrong and it's just his dreams that are doing the talking.

 

**** 

 

The next day Arthur wakes to the same scenario as before. He finds Merlin perched on a low stool by his bed; he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and wringing his hands. When he becomes aware of Arthur having woken, he once again does his best to make Arthur comfortable. 

He does this by fetching and carrying, providing blankets and bearing Arthur company through silent spells and moments filled with a kind of mutual chatter that runs on parallel lines never destined to meet.

He stokes the fire, tugs at the animal skin sealing out the cold seeping in from the window. This allows more light to permeate the chamber but the effect isn't drastic. Light doesn't flood in, because the day is as grey as steel and because the windows themselves were designed to be small, vertical slits encased in the wall. 

Merlin wrinkles his nose up and starts speaking.

Facial expression taken into account, he's probably expressing his contempt for that type of window or the lack of light or the dreary nordic days. Or some other factor he finds distasteful.

Arthur says, “Let it be; there's not much that can be done about it,” but Merlin crosses the room to light an oil lamp.

When more light floods the bed area, he looks more satisfied and reprises his seat by the bed. He talks and his tone takes on a sweet note that makes Arthur wonder what Merlin was like with his own friends, when he was free.

He falls silent when father visits Arthur in the afternoon, a quiet huddled figure in the corner, but finds his tongue again the moment Father leaves.

Arthur finds that encouraging. “So,” he says, knowing full well that his words wash upon Merlin like ocean ripples on sand, “at least you like me better than my father. At least I hope so.”

Merlin says something and whatever it is it sounds pleasant enough, though Merlin's stopped mid-elocution by a knock on the door. Upon hearing it, he goes rigid, his back straight. His fingers curl.

Arthur smiles reassuringly and says, “It's not like the other night, numbskull. Guards don't knock. It must be a servant on some sort of errand.” He waves his hand in the direction of the door. “Go open it.”

Merlin does, to be faced with one of the keep's serving girls. She's bearing a bowlful of water she has propped against her hip. “The king sent me,” she says. 

Merlin eyes her as if she's a mysterious envoy, then takes in the bowl and the girl's tight, tired expression. He seems to get why she's there and chirps out a question the girl doesn't understand. 

Arthur's about to push his covers aside and step in when the Merlin starts miming washing and tilts his head towards Arthur.

The girl nods. “Yes,” she says. “The King said the Prince would need some water to have a good wash since he can't have baths yet.”

Tapping his own chest, Merlin wrestles control of the bowl from the girl, emitting a stream of talk that's clearly meant to reassure. 

The girl doesn't look convinced and says, “No, I was told to see to it. I don't want a dressing down!”

Merlin may not understand their language but he does understand getting rebuffed. His face falls and he hugs the bowl to himself, splashing water everywhere, until Arthur intervenes. “It's all right,” he tells the serving girl. “You may go. You may tell anyone that challenges you that it was on my orders you went and that I praised you for being quick and dutiful.”

The girl curtsies quickly, sends Merlin an odd look, and retreats before new and contradicting orders may be uttered. Shrewd girl.

As for Merlin he settles the bowl on a stool, quirks an eyebrow at it, lifts his head, and stares at Arthur.

Arthur moves to a sitting position, meaning to stand and get himself cleaned up. It's been two days since he cleaned up last and he can definitely use a wash.

“ _Náthó!”_ Merlin says and that must be a 'no', in his idiom. He expands on his previous exclamation, letting his gaze flit to Arthur's side, miming the groans of a person bending down in pain. 

Arthur stays put, sinking back beneath the covers.

Merlin moves over and starts helping Arthur wash. He's silent about it as if he senses it's is a very private moment. 

Arthur would baulk at the intimacy of it but for the look in Merlin's eyes, the determined but gentle one that says he wants to help. 

It's a look that makes Arthur think. Merlin is the one who's been driven to his knees, literally and metaphorically, ever since he was captured and then sold. The very fact that Arthur has a privacy to protect while Merlin doesn't is a notion that urges him to level the field in any way he can. 

Arthur holds Merlin's gaze and nods; Merlin does the same in return, expression chnaging, going softer.

Arthur lets Merlin cast aside the blankets cocooning him, lets him pull off his tunic, helping him by lifting his arms to facilitate the process. 

An old nurse used to do this for him when Arthur was small enough for such things to be acceptable. She did it brusquely, putting him to bed and pushing him under the covers with an economy of movement that meant she wanted her task over and done with as quickly as possible.

Merlin is nothing like that. He takes his time; he's gentle and conscientious. 

He draws a wet cloth down Arthur's face, making Arthur close his eyes, clearing away all the sweat and any smudge of dirt he can find. He runs it across Arthur's forehead and down his shoulders, cooling Arthur's skin. 

Arthur sucks in his breath as Merlin gently strokes him clean, swiping the cloth down from arm to knuckles, then wetting it again by dipping it in the bowl and making his way up.

As Merlin steadily continues with this task, Arthur clenches the bedsheets between fingers that were lax and go taut, the more so when Merlin leans across him to work on his other side. 

When he's done with Arthur's arms, waking goose flesh wherever he goes, he rubs the wet cloth down Arthur's abdomen, avoiding soaking the bandages. 

Arthur's muscles flex; and Merlin stops in his ministrations, wipes at his nose, smiles at Arthur as if to encourage him and then continues until he meets the folds of Arthur's sheets.

Arthur's breath quickens but, wanting this to go on, he spurs Merlin on with his eyes. Merlin meets his gaze as if asking for clues. Arthur yanks the sheet away and says, “It felt all right.”

He follows that with a little smile Merlin ends up sharing.

Emboldened, Merlin tackles Arthur's legs and feet, washing between his toes, an action that makes Arthur hiccup with laughter.

Merlin flashes him a look, a merry one, and it breaks the silence that's been there since Merlin began. It works for a while, at least until Merlin starts washing against the grain of Arthur's coarse hair.

And something changes.

They both hiss when Merlin reaches Arthur's thighs, making them quiver. 

The cloth feels cool on Arthur, bringing pleasure, refreshing and soothing. Lighting a fire at the same time.

Paradoxically, Arthur's getting fevered in a way that has nothing to do with the spiked temperature his body weathered when he lay sick in bed in the first few days after being wounded. 

Instead, it has everything to do with the pleasure Merlin's touch is bringing him, mediated by the cloth as it might be.

The care with which Merlin's tending to Arthur, the coolness of his fingertips when he accidentally brushes them against a patch of Arthur's skin, makes Arthur pink cheeked and tense. 

It's a dead give away. It raises awareness on both their parts. Arthur cock stirs as his muscles do. Arthur's waiting with baited breath for the next touch. Waiting for it as if it's more than a mundane task performed by Merlin, like his actions have purpose although, naturally, they don't. 

Merlin's made things clear and Arthur respects that.

Almost automatically Arthur bends his knees to shield his groin. He's only wearing underwear made of a thin fabric that is heaven on the skin but flimsy enough to hide absolutely nothing. Especially at such close quarters. In short, it's nothing that can hide his hardness or the fact that his body has reacted in the expectation of sex.

It's not the position that he wants to put Merlin in.

However, there's no way for his body to lie about it; Merlin's got a quality about him that moves Arthur and makes his blood stir. He might have not dwelt on that before – and on purpose, rather admiring Merlin's other qualities -- but there's no way this truth isn't hitting him like a slap on the face right now. 

“I'm sorry,” he says, choosing that as the only word Merlin will surely understand and lacing it with layers and layers of meaning it can't alone convey. 

He will never do anything about his desire for Merlin. He promises not to and he consigns his vow to the undercurrent he puts to his words. A kind of reassurance brought home by gesture and sound more than words.

Merlin's his and because he is Arthur will never make a request that can't be denied. The very nature of ownership makes it impossible for him. “I'm sorry.”

Merlin stops, his eyes climb up Arthur body and Arthur knows with a certainty that goes deep to his bones that he's seen. Registered everything. Arthur's erection, his embarrassment.

The only change in Merlin's features is given by a slight reddening of his neck and his lips falling open.

Daring something ill-advised, Arthur takes his wrist. "I'll never hurt you," he murmurs, his gaze steady on Merlin's. “And I didn't buy you to satisfy my needs.” Then he says something he wouldn't have said if Merlin had had the means to understand. “Although you call to me.”

He lets go. 

In answer Merlin shrugs his shoulders, steps away, pours him a cup of water. He holds his hands up in a sign of peace, murmurs a few words in that tongue of his that's become like balm to Arthur's ears, and waits for Arthur to calm down, to subside. 

He sits at the foot of the bed with his back bent, the cloth wrung in his hands, his profile both sharp and a thing of beauty in the light cast by the oil lamp.

Given his state of health, Arthur's arousal gives way to tiredness quickly enough, though the buzz under his skin doesn't go away. 

After a handful of minutes Merlin gives out a big sigh, stands again, and goes back to his work, mixing languages to express himself. “ _Ed attá maith. Est agedum.”_

To prove that it's as all right as he said, he slides the cloth, now drier than before, up Arthur's thighs and towards his hips, pushing Arthur's small clothes down to his knees. 

He does it respectfully and without giving off any sign of finding the task distasteful. He merely passes the cloth to Arthur the moment Arthur starts breathing hard again. It's a matter of fact gesture and in no way unkind or timorous.

To give him privacy, Merlin turns to face the hearth, a patch of heightened colour highly defined across the bridge of his nose.

Arthur doesn't know what to make of it. He's pretty sure Merlin said it was all right. Arthur's knowledge of the word 'agendum' suggests that. But Merlin's reaction shows that it isn't. That he might be feeling awkward about it. About Arthur's reaction at the very least, perhaps about having to perform duties of such a personal nature too. He's certainly never been a body servant though he's good at tending to ailing people.

Perhaps he helped with that before. He looks like a peasant but there's no rule that says that a peasant mightn't be skilled at healing. That the men bearing the cross wouldn't have let him.

Still wondering about Merlin's past life, Arthur cleans himself fast, all thoughts of how lovely Merlin is chased away by knowing that he's stepped over the line of their fragile truce. There's also the humiliation involved in not being wanted. All of this when he should not even remotely be thinking about being desired.

It makes his face feel hot and something uncomfortable take abode in his chest.

He sits up, naked as he is, head bent. He turns and places both feet squarely on the floor. Opening his hand, he drops the cloth back in the bowl, watching it sink after it soaks up more and more water. 

That's when he notices that Merlin has turned. He stalks up to Arthur, lips pressed together, high colour still on his cheeks as he tries to wrest Arthur back into his clothes. 

He doesn't say anything as Arthur tries to tell him that he can manage by himself. It's completely different from how it was yesterday when Merlin good-humouredly accepted to play tug of war over the blankets.

There's more reserve.

When Arthur's covered again, Merlin brushes his shoulders, places a woollen quilt on his knees, murmurs something in his ear and goes, door clicking softly shut behind him. He leaves Arthur to stare at the door completely dumbfounded.

For the best part of the next morning Arthur is convinced Merlin won't show up. He doesn't ask after him, fearing he'll be dragged upstairs when he doesn't want to be. Merlin can't escape, not wearing a collar and shorn hair, but he can avoid him if not brought to task.

Alone in his room, the four walls stifle Arthur. It's like they're closing in on him while they keep the world outside.

As an adult, Arthur's never stayed long inside. It's not for people like him – warriors – to allow themselves to stay cooped up in one single chamber for so long. Even when winters hit hard and it becomes safer to keep indoors, warriors take up abode in the communal rooms. Sometimes even venture forth, braving the weather. 

However imprudent, seeing as he's been out of it for a week, Arthur kicks his blankets off and heaves himself upright, feeling unsteady but better than on the day before. As he stands, albeit on unsteady feet, he makes plans to outline a schedule for his recovery.

Today he'll make it to the far wall, then back, and start a pattern of resistance training.

He's so proud of having completed two turns of the room without panting too much that he only notices Merlin when he slowly pivots round to start again. “Gods,” he says, “what are you doing here?”

Merlin tips up an eyebrow and walks up to him. His eyes run to Arthur's middle where the bandages are hidden by his tunic. Seeing no traces of blood – as Arthur could have told him – Merlin stops fussing and nods. But doesn't fail to call the shots by grabbing Arthur's wrist to lead him back to bed.

Arthur digs his heels in. “No!” he protests. “I need to get better. I need to get stronger. To go back to my duties.”

Merlin tugs again and when Arthur doesn't budge, he throws his hands up in the hair. “ _Quam ob rem?”_

Arthur's voice rises in volume. “Because I'm a warrior. And I need to be back on my feet if I want to stay one. Stay fit enough to be one.” 

Merlin's expression remains one of utter confusion. 

_Ut pugnāre,”_ Arthur says, making a fist to convey the idea of a fight. “One of my father's retainers on the mainland has been playing fast and loose with the promises he made. A campaign is being planned against him and I need to be fit enough to take part in it.”

Merlin must have understood something, for he offers Arthur his shoulder to help him walk. 

They exercise this way every day for a week, the second thing Merlin daily offers to do after he's helped Arthur wash and dress.

In the meanwhile Arthur's is getting some of his strength back. He can walk the perimeter of his chambers on loop and though he gets winded, he always feels like pushing it, testing himself so there'll be more he can do tomorrow.

Merlin helps him incrementally less, having started off by bracing him with a shoulder under his and an arm wrapped around his waist, and now restricting his interventions to being a prop when Arthur stumbles or presses his lips together in pain.

Merlin's support isn't something Arthur should have wanted if his aim was getting back on his own two feet – being fit enough to get back to his normal strength levels – but he finds that he's missing something by needing it less and less.

Merlin's scent, the feel of him, his body warmth.

It's when Merlin steps closer and it's all right because he seems to want to be there, smiling in encouragement or stepping back when he thinks Arthur's got everything under control.

However crazy it may sound knowing what he's promised himself, Merlin stepping back always leaves a hollow inside of Arthur. 

It's subtle. It's not as if he cries rivers about it or lets it show. But it's lodged itself under his skin. It's there, something Arthur could poke at if he chose to. If he let himself wonder. But he doesn't, persevering with his training instead. 

He pushes a bit more with every passing day until one day he totters and has to prop himself up by placing a hand on the bed post. 

He says, “I'm not doing as well as I should, Merlin.” 

Merlin places a hand on his shoulder, not helping him upright as he usually does, as if he's sensing the boundary Arthur's created out of fear of not being able to pull through alone. 

With an odd kind of insight, Merlin knows when to act and when not to.

Probably to humour him, Merlin plays the clown, wresting a smile out of Arthur. 

Seeing as it's working, his confidence mounts. He overdoes it in a way that defies any language barriers, orchestrating pratfalls and comedic sketches, juggling apples and even jumping around. Then he turns his humour inwards, tugging on his ears and passing a hand over his shorn locks.

He lifts both shoulders. 

“It'll grow back,” says Arthur, making it a promise. “It will.”

It flies over Merlin's head like most of Arthur's words do.

The fact that it does is the reason why Arthur starts seasoning his own resistance training with language lessons for Merlin. 

No reason not to kill two birds with one stone, especially since Merlin's the only one constantly helping him and nobody would be there wondering why Arthur's taking such pains to teach Merlin.

Arthur wants them to be on the same page so badly that he wonders how he didn't think of that before.

Merlin looks simple – his naïve unguarded looks often do – but there's an edge of mystery to him that words might perhaps clear.

Besides, it takes Arthur's mind off the temporary limitations of his body. So he teaches Merlin the words applying to the simplest household objects. He lifts them, taps them on the side, and pronounces the word associated with each of them. At first Merlin mangles the words but then he gets on a roll and learns a good number of them.

He's not too bad at it, not as Arthur is when Merlin does the same for him using Arthur's own method.

It's a pity Arthur doesn't know how to teach him how to express more abstract concepts. Barring 'yes' and 'no', Merlin can't convey any yet. 

Unfortunately, Arthur is no teacher; his knowledge restricted to all things military. He's not a man of the word, or a skald. He knows how to read, but only the simplest of messages, prayers, or invocations.

There's still one thing that he can teach Merlin though. He does it by taking out his most prized sword from the chest that contains it. 

Still minding the dictates of his body, he slowly sits on his bed and places it across his knees with a reverence that is his old companion. The blade is cool against his skin, even through the soft fabric of his breeches. Wielding it is a pleasure Arthur thinks no other man has ever experienced.

Since Merlin is showing no signs of wariness at Arthur picking up a weapon, Arthur summons him, pats the bed and waits for Merlin to come to him.

Despite all that's gone before, Merlin does, sitting down next to him and looking at Arthur out of the corner of his eyes. _“Do claideb?”_

“My sword,” says Arthur, running his fingers down the smooth tempered metal of the blade. “Sword.”

 _”Claideb_ ,” Merlin rejoins, tentatively reaching a hand out to touch the tip.

“Careful,” says Arthur. “It's sharp.” 

Merlin's skin doesn't break though Arthur intercepts his roving hand and, seeing no struggle, guides it down the fuller. 

“These are runes,” he says. “They're used for writing things down. The wise ones say they're magic. That they can tell you the future, bring you luck, convey secrets.” 

Arthur's voice goes soft when he reads the wonder in Merlin's eyes, when he watches him trace the symbols etched on the sword. “That's probably bull. I've never seen instances of withcraft, not real witchcraft. Even Alice... she knows herbal lore, not magic. That said, writing is special. I want to teach you what I know of it.”

Merlin's eyes have a new shine to them as though he's fascinated by what he's seeing. The light of the candle is making his gaze more penetrating, lending a subtle glow to his eyes.

 _“Druídecht?”_ Merlin asks, waving his fingers about, imitating a sleight of hand gesture. He catches Arthur's gaze. _“Druidecht?”_

“Magic, yeah,” says Arthur. “Though I'm not sure lore masters are telling the truth about it, you know. That it's there, all pervasive. That the gods have lent it to us.”

As an afterthought he adds, “I don't really think warriors get to carouse everlastingly in the afterlife either.” He pauses, sees the shine in Merlin's eyes as his fingers trace the symbols on the sword as you would the features of a lover.

Fascinated by Merlin's interest, Arthur reads out each letter that Merlin touches, in turn.

“Magic?” Merlin whispers, a smile playing on his lips that much resembles a child's one, both in its purity and enthusiasm. 

Maybe like Arthur did as a child, Merlin used to listen to fireside tales involving magic. Maybe the tales differ from land to land and Merlin's never heard of the god that gifted humanity with the power of words, but he must have known similar stories, the ones told by his people. His people over the sea.

Arthur can't really fault him for that, not when his own father believes in and fears them all. Fears the power of the gods and their tricks.

“Magic sword,” Merlin says and Arthur doesn't contradict him. Doesn't tell him that maybe Ragnarok has come and the gods and their magic have gone from this world. On balance, Arthur's sword served him so well against countless foes that it might as well be as magic as any legendary weapon. Truth or no. 

“Yes, Merlin.”

Merlin sags against him, body gone pliable. Head down, he looks at the upturned palms of his hands, where the signs left by the shackles are fading, where his odd tattoo is, and smiles. 

They don't discuss the subject further that night, but the lessons continue over the next few days and Merlin grows different towards him, dances closer, his touch lingering for longer spells. His smiles become infectious, like beacons, though sometimes Arthur catches him as he stares at him pensively, with a softness in his looks that Arthur might mistake for something else if the conditions of their forced partnership weren't different. 

If possible, Merlin talks more. And now a word or two of what he's saying is clear to Arthur. 

It makes Arthur feel closer to Merlin, makes a new bright flame turn his heart in chest. He doesn't ask himself what it is. He nurtures it in silence.

This way days pass and Arthur feels better and better until one day he stares at the window – pale sun peeking out – and says, “I think tomorrow we might take a stroll out.”

 

**** 

 

Something wakes him earlier than he naturally would. A sound that's familiar. It's the crunching of wagon wheels on frozen ground, the rumble and racket created by the fusing together of human voices pitched in the baritones of command and the whinnying and stampeding of horses.

As he twists himself sideways to get his feet on the floor, Arthur only knows a bearable twinge of pain. As he goes to the window, he doesn't stumble or get winded, proof, if any is needed, that he's recuperating.

Curiously, he pulls aside the hide keeping out the cold and sealing the window. To keep his body warmth levels from decreasing he crosses his arms and watches. Light barely tinges the sky a paler blue, a pink lining demarcating the horizon line. 

The sun is still mostly in hiding, blazing rose, while streaks of green light edge the slice of it that is partially visible. Long clouds stretch along the horizon, above the fortress walls, where the waters of the Mälaren meets the sky. They, too, are lined with reds, oranges, and yellows, the latter burning to gold in places.

Second by second the stars stop twinkling, their temporary death the true herald of dawn. Out of the milky morning whiteness, the outline of the hills on Björkö island stands out.

As dawn light starts to seep lower and lower, tendrils of mist hover over the ground, ghosting upwards, trying to meet the thin rays of light that come from above like evanescent arms surging towards the sky. 

Fresh flakes of compact snow swirl about and settle on the ground, on the shoulders of men, on the horses' sides and between their twitching ears. 

At least half a garrison is gathered in the courtyard; warriors toing and froing, mounting their steeds, trying out their blades for balance, while supply carts and wagons are loaded. The men as busy as ants preparing for winter.

From his window Arthur can't see the jetty but, given the order of the day, he's sure there'll be boats there equally waiting to be loaded. Given the urgency of the men in the courtyard it stands to reason to think that a similar urgency will be experienced there too.

The bustle being an obvious indicator, the men are about to set out on an expedition. 

They're all armed to the teeth, wearing, helmets, shields, chain mail shirts, while otherwise juggling swords and daggers. The freedmen are leaning against their spears, their smaller shields propped against their legs as they wait for the order to move, knives tied to their belts. 

By the tone of the commanders hectoring the men, the bustle of servants, slaves and footsoldiers, Arthur can tell this is going to be more than a short raid. The air of excitation filling the men and leading them to bark out curses and short claps of thunder-like laughter is another rather obvious indicator that such is the case.

They're hoping for loot.

The men are silenced when Father makes it into the courtyard, cloak billowing after him, a big cloak pin catching what little light there is. 

The house guard follows on his heels, clattering down the steps leading into the courtyard. They're terrifying in the way the move like big feral creatures, in their self-assurance, wielding as they are two-handed axes Arthur knows to be the most fearsome weapon in creation.

Without waiting to hear Father's speech Arthur turns round. 

He can't wait for Merlin or a servant to appear so he roots in his chest and finds himself some clothes to wear.

Slipping his breeches on is easy and the same goes for pulling his tunic down. Things get more complicated the moment he has to bend down to fasten his boots or when he has to don his chain mail. Folds of skin meet and his side burns.

Moreover the shirt of mail sits heavy on his ribcage and chafes against his wound. Taking an experimental step makes him grit his teeth; any elaborate move engenders the same result. However that may be, he has no time for putting on the kind of padding that would ease the chafing. 

Accoutred as he is, he grabs his sword and cloak and hastens out of his room.

It's the first time in two weeks that he makes it outside his room, but nothing has changed. Not the deferential looks he gets and not the fact that the quickest way to get to the courtyard involves taking a back staircase mostly only servants use.

When he breaks out of the confines of the building, he inhales deeply, welcoming the pungent but fresh air that hits his lungs. At the same time he quickly scans the the courtyard for his father and meets the surprised glances of the men at arms in return.

They're surprised to see him on his feet already.

Most eyes on him, he braces himself for pain and bounds down the step, tries his hardest to stalk up to his father once his feet hit the compact paving of the courtyard. His movements might be slower and more guarded than they generally are, the chain mail pricking at his closing wound and the delicate tissue around it, but he covers it up with a show of confidence. 'Nothing's happened here' his body is trying to say.

“Father,” he says, joining his parent. “You haven't summoned me and yet it's clear you're on the march against Hengist.”

“That's because you're not coming,” says Father.

“But, Father!” Arthur hisses. “You can't have me sit this out. I'm perfectly recovered.” He widens his stance, throwing his shoulders out and back even though by doing so he's given up all notion of comfort. This way his flesh gets pushed against the fabric of his tunic and that's the only light buffer against the irritant that is chain mail. “I'm a warrior. And we all know a warrior is only respected in so far as he can lead. If I can't--”

“Enough, Arthur,” Father says. “You'll let me be the judge of this and you will obey.”

“Father!” he pleads but there's no moving Father if the twitch of his jaw muscles is anything to go by.

“A dead leader can't lead anymore than a bad one,” Father says. “Our loyal retainers will understand. Those who won't will learn their lesson the moment you're fit again.” Father mounts his horse. “What I won't abide is disobedience, however. No man, not even a son of mine, will be allowed to disrespect my commands.”

Arthur pushes his lips together and bows his head; hands clench into fists at his sides.

Father snaps his fingers at a man at arms, getting his attention. “Escort my son to his chambers.”

Before he can, however, an uncovered cart draws up. Gaius, huddled into heavy clothes and an earth coloured cloak, sits next to the driver. In the rear the man bearing the cross Arthur first saw at Bergvid's is slumping in the seat that runs along the side of the vehicle. Like Merlin, he's lost all his hair, not just that around the bare spot on the back of his head. He's no longer wearing the long brown habit he had on the only time Arthur clapped eyes on him. Neither is he wearing his cross, despite Arthur's appellative for him.

Before Arthur can enquire further, Father coughs, soliciting both Arthur and the man at arms to retire. Arthur takes his eyes from Gaius to meet his father's. “But why?”

“Do as I say,” Father says in the voice of a king, not a parent. “Gaius will help you with the day to day business of administering the keep. I'll be back in less than a month. By then I trust you'll be fully recovered and able to keep me.up to speed as regards the upkeep of the fortress. And see to it that the Björkö traders pay all their fines and dues.”

So saying, Father reins his horse away and men form in files behind him. Whole flanks take shape at his side.

By the time it starts snowing harder, they've all filed out of the bridge, Gaius and the man bearing the cross having disappeared too. But that doesn't matter to Arthur now, his momentary curiosity dulled. It doesn't matter when he's been left behind and proved unworthy of assisting his father.

A lone blackbird starts its early morning song. Its chant almost seems like mockery.

Dismissing the man at arms charged with accompanying him, Arthur retreats to his rooms, going more slowly about climbing steps and crossing hallways now that he's alone. When he slips into the corridor leading to his own room, it's to find Merlin peeking out of the doors to his chamber, looking upset. 

Merlin's mouth is pressed into a thin line; he's craning his neck this way and that and his tendons stick out. When he sees Arthur, his shoulders relax and when Arthur edges close to him, Merlin shoves at him, a stormy-sounding expletive on his lips.

It would make Arthur smile if Arthur weren't too preoccupied with other things. As it is, he pushes past Merlin, sheds cloak, scabbard and chain mail as useless, and goes to stand by the thin window overlooking the courtyard.

It's emptying and the silence doesn't do anything to make Arthur feel any better or any closer to achieving a sense of calm, balance. Closer to finding his real, everyday self.

He's used to noise and bustle. To wielding arms and bearing hard marches. To wading upriver at night till he spies his target. To quick and fast raids that decide whether you live or you die. He's used to longer campaigns too, like the one that's taken his father to fight Hengist. 

Warfare is in his blood. Except today he's been told to bide his time at home. Like a child.

Merlin doesn't break the silence Arthur establishes. Instead he takes to darning a shirt.

The snow turns to sleet and it patters hard on the roofs and covers the courtyard. A layer of frost that turns to mulch permeates the ground. The ice storm brings a fierce wind with it; its shrill voice haunting Arthur's ears even here inside the keep. 

He briefly wonders if his mother felt like this when Father took off on a raid. Then dismisses the notion. His mother was a warrior's daughter and seldom inactive.

Clouds hang even lower now over the fortress, wind whipping and probably tossing the waters of the Mälaren too.

“My father didn't start out as king,” he says as if it's a recital and this is not, at least in part, his story, the story of his family. “He was a warrior's son. Had two long ships and a crew. He went from victory to victory and the prize for those was land. Estates. Silver. And objects he could trade. Not the least of which were... bondsmen. His overlord, a mighty chieftain, was proud. But then he aged... And Father took over from him. He was acknowledged as the new leader by both his own people during a general Thing and by his overlord's.”

Merlin hums in silence, swift at darning as he isn't when he's trying to avoid sword blows. Perhaps in his past life, the one he led before becoming a captive, he was used to doing that too.

“And now here I am young and in my prime and...”

Merlin bites his lip and rises from his perch at the edge of Arthur's bed. Head held high, he walks up to Arthur and shoves Arthur's shirt back at him. Looking at it from this close Arthur realises it's the one he was wearing on the day he bought Merlin and Merlin stabbed him. 

The shirt is still serviceable now; the bloodstains have been washed out or cut out but the line Merlin has sewn along the erstwhile rip in the fabric is still very visible. Merlin shoots an eyebrow up at him then reserves the same kind of odd glare for the shirt. 

Arthur's fairly sure it means something but he doesn't get what. Merlin isn't saying sorry again that's for sure. Not looking so murderous. Besides, Arthur believes they've got over that particular incident in their own silent way. But he isn't sure they agree over anything else or that they do in this particular instance. 

He doesn't think that Merlin is in the best of moods right now or that his attempt at communicating is fully amicable. Hell, he has no idea what Merlin's saying. This is one of those times he wishes he and Merlin shared the same language and were able to communicate without using snatches of idioms borrowed here and there.

“I'm not sure I can wear it,” Arthur says, looking at the shirt more than at Merlin. “I mean it might have been a bit of a wasted effort, don't you think?”

Merlin's look is just sour. He guides Arthur's hand over the spot where the tear was and juts his chin forward rather pointedly. 

“You're right,” Arthur says. “Your work shouldn't go to waste. This is a decent shirt otherwise. I-- uh – I'll use it for training. Sword fighting. You know those words, don't you? Sword fighting?”

“Swords,” says Merlin contemptuously, proving he's understood the word though he might not approve of what Arthur means by invoking it. _“Ná trá lúath._ ” he says meaningfully. 

Then he pushes at Arthur, walking right into his space in a way he hasn't done since they had their improvised duel in this very chamber. He splays his hand over Arthur's side, where he knows the wound is, and Arthur's jaw slides open for all the wrong reasons.

Merlin's hand is hot even through Arthur's shirt and his fingers are long. They cover the span of a stretch of belly and a few ribs. His hand's light on him. 

The touch is significant, Arthur knows it, and it makes his chest tighten as if he's fighting for hair. 

Merlin murmurs words that mean nothing to Arthur and Arthur can only bow his head and look at Merlin's hand on him, at the closeness between their bodies. And marvel at how much he wants this touch to mean something else. Something different. At how he wants it to be longing and need and not... Whatever this is.

Arthur's throat works in a swallow aimed at letting him find words, but he doesn't. He blinks and blinks like a man waking from a dream or walking into the twilight space of one. Lips moving, but no sound coming out, he takes a step closer, so that Merlin has to bend his arm to negotiate the new distance created between them.

Merlin's words tickle down to silence. Then Arthur lifts his eyes and they fasten on Merlin's lips first and then upwards as they settle into an odd kind of stare out with Merlin.

Merlin says one word. The word is “Well”. It it's not part of any grammatical construct though it's certainly a portion of Merlin's message. Arthur still can't make head or tails of what Merlin's trying to convey. His runaway heart doesn't help him find his coherence.

Does Merlin want him to get better? Is that what he's saying? And if he is, why would he even be committed enough to care? 

Aside from the kind of good will that ripples off him in tall waves like those that crest the seas in winter, Merlin has no reason to wish him well. No man can bear such positive feelings towards the one who owns him. There can be no... There can be none of that, surely.

Arthur can't back away, because the window's behind him and short of climbing out of it, there's nowhere for him to go. But he says, “Go get some breakfast, Merlin. Breakfast,” and it's good enough of a dismissal, in tones and manner, as well as in words, for Merlin to get the drift. 

After having balled up and dropped the shirt he so painstakingly sewed, Merlin leaves, Arthur still lost to the feelings warring inside him when the door closes

Silently Arthur picks the mended shirt up, wondering at what it stood for in Merlin's head.

 

**** 

 

Sitting close to the window reflecting on the weather conditions impact of Father's campaign, isn't likely conducive to anything good. 

He's basically twiddling his thumbs and being introspective. This won't do.

Merlin is still absent, probably hiding in the kitchens, and Arthur resolves to go down and prove that he can be useful even while recovering. Even when Merlin wreaks havoc on his heart, his senses, and sense of logic.

When the sun is not even partway up the sky, he summons Gaius to the council chamber. The man comes quickly enough, stooping a little with the weight of age, the man bearing the cross trailing after him warily.

At sight of the old man, Arthur rises. Even though Gaius is merely a freedman, his accomplishments and his age deserve respect. Neither are easily come by. However, he does look speculatively at the new arrival, a man he wouldn't have thought to see again after he was sold to one of Bergvid's patrons.

“Ah,” says Gaius, “pardon me. When I was summoned back by your father, I took the liberty of getting myself some help. I knew overseeing the citadel as steward would be a hard task and I'm not getting any younger.”

While the man bearing the now missing cross keeps in the shadows, Arthur advances. “He's a slave. Bought by one of Bergvid's patrons. How come he's here?” Arthur frowns. “Gaius, you know we can't countenance the presence of runaway slaves.” The words die on his lips, a visual of Merlin's collar swimming before his mind's eye making him stop. “The entire social structure would implode if we did.”

“He's not a runaway, sire. I met a caravan on the road here. When I saw him he was being mistreated,” said Gaius. “So I stopped the caravan, questioned the owner, a surly man if ever there was one, and when I realised the owner was barely civilised, I bought him.”

“You bought him?” asks Arthur.

“Yes, indeed, I did,” Gaius answers with a levity he's sure Gaius doesn't feel. “He still had his cross on when I did. Which was what made me stop and contemplate the purchase, My Lord. It told me he was a monk. A priest officiating the rites of his religion. Since his co-religionists are usually learned, I assumed he could likely read and write. In fact, Edwin was the treasurer of the monastery the Birka warriors raided. He's skilled in some arts we don't have here, but they do include reading and writing.”

“In a language we don't speak,” Arthur says, less sternly than he originally meant to. 

Gaius pushes his luck. “But that I do. Though I was raised using the vernacular of my land, I speak Latin well enough for Edwin to be of help to me. Immeasurable help, considering I'm not getting any younger.” Gaius coughs, Arthur's sure, for effect. To show how old age is bringing him down.

Still eyeing Edwin mistrustfully, Arthur takes a seat, inviting Old Gaius to do the same. “All right,” says Arthur, “Let's forget about this. And let us discuss the castle's provision system, the taxation of the merchants and raiders--” Here Gaius makes a noise that reminds Arthur how improbable retrieving all their dues seems, “... and our other mainland estates. Especially the one you've just come back from overseeing.”

Gaius starts speaking, repeating a few words in Latin, for, Arthur deduces, Edwin to memorise. His report on the mainland estates is exhaustive and conclusive. He's done much to improve the yield of those lands and Father can probably count himself the richer this year. Gaius' cleverness is a great asset to them. They move on to provisioning. 

Provisioning the garrison over the next month or so won't be too difficult, Gaius says, considering that half the men are away with Father. Problems may start to arise during the height of winter, though, and may only be seen to by way of a rationing system. “As for customs on revenues accruing from raids,” says Gaius, “more silver could help us buying what we lack. But it won't be easy. Raiders are extremely attached to their booties. They won't give up the portions they owe lightly. They'll always try to cheat. But we may discuss the issue during the next Thing.”

Arthur nods, satisfied. The sun has clambered to its apex, ready to begin its quick descent. 

Gaius has slowly risen, the crack of his joints audible in the room, when Arthur is hit by an idea. It's not exactly an afterthought, since he started contemplating doing such a thing the moment he clapped eyes on Edwin, but now that all business has been dealt with it has become an itch that won't go away. He doesn't know exactly how to put it into words, but the fact that Gaius is unaware of most of the facts helps, making him feel less exposed “You speak Edwin's language, Gaius, don't you?”

“Yes,” says Gaius, looking at Arthur as if he's simple. He well might, given that Arthur's opening gambit wasn't particularly clever. Not when Gaius has proved before his very eyes that he can communicate with Edwin in fast, clipped Latin. “Or at least I know one of the languages he does speak. I doubt Latin is Edwin's mother tongue, as it isn't mine, but he speaks it to be able to carry out the offices of his religion.”

Arthur doesn't know what language and religion have to do one with the other but goes with that because he knows Gaius is trustworthy. More, Gaius has a different background and therefore understands people coming from different places better than Arthur does. Arthur has only been away on raiding missions lasting a few weeks. Gaius' life began somewhere else. “Could you ask him some questions for me? And translate the answers?”

“Yes,” says Gaius, both his eyebrows cocked upwards in wonderment. “I suppose I can.”

“Ask Edwin what he knows of Merlin.”

“Merlin, sire?” Gaius asks in confirmation, trying the sound out. 

Arthur waves his hand. “My new slave.”

Gaius looks taken aback and his eyebrows don't come down. He turns his head diligently however and addresses Edwin in that Latin tongue that keeps sounding very foreign to Arthur, even though Gaius was schooled in it, and passed on choice titbits to him.

Edwin at first is calm, passive even, his head bowed. But then Gaius mentions Merlin's name and Edwin's head snaps up. His eyes harden in a glare. He says something to Gaius, quick and nervous, though he fastens his eyes on Arthur, not Gaius. There's anger in the narrowing of Edwin's pupils.

Gaius says, “Edwin agrees to answer any question that you might put to him. And trusts I'll be a good translator. However,” and here Gaius flashes Edwin a questioning look, “he's wondering how it's possible for Merlin to still be here.”

Arthur looks at Edwin directly rather than at their translator. “After you were bought I bought him.”

Gaius translates and Arthur can see that Edwin still doesn't appear satisfied, wringing his hands as he does as if someone caught him blundering. 

He shifts in his seat and ducks his head till he's in the same position he was in when Arthur and Gaius were discussing the administration of Father's estates. A submissive one. But there's something to the way he sits, as if he's about to snap taut, that makes Arthur wonder at his reaction all the same.

He tries to wave it off as a communication failure due to the different languages spoken, but he still feels as if he's being too quick at dismissing his concerns. Though he couldn't define those concerns to save his life. 

Edwin's surprise at Merlin being here can be construed is so many ways that have nothing to do with Edwin wanting to retaliate or unleash violence on the household Arthur is protecting.

Edwin's been reasonably obedient thus far, even though he tends to sulk. Again something Arthur's seen most slaves from overseas do until they accept their admittedly sad lot.

“I still would have the story,” Arthur says for Gaius to translate. 

The information is passed on to Edwin and Edwin replies.

Gaius nods at the reply and then reports it. “He says Merlin was a Frater Oblatus or Frater Laicus. He was given by his mother to the church when he was younger. Although the practice is against some of the new rules defining Edwin's religion.” Gaius asks Edwin for confirmation. Edwin nods and Gaius adds, “When he was a little older, Merlin was asked if he wanted to stay on as an oblate and he said he did.”

“What's an oblate?” Arthur asks, confused by the word and not even sure how to pronounce it.

Gaius seems to know the answer without needing to ask Edwin. “That means he worked for the monastery Edwin also lived in. He did this in exchange for a roof on his head and food. Maybe protection.” Gaius asks another question of Edwin and then starts again. “Merlin was a lay oblate; this means he didn't take any vows.”

Arthur is more confused than before. He gets that Merlin had a job helping the people who oversaw the Kingdom of Brega's religious rituals, but he has no idea as to what these vows he didn't take entail. Or if the fact he didn't take them may be considered bad. 

Arthur knows that a promise is solemn. That a man is only as good as his word. And that vows should be upheld lest one loses his honour. Can not taking vows be considered dishonourable? But he doesn't get how this might relate to what he's been just told. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“The men bearing the cross,” Gaius say, “believe that men who devote themselves to their God should keep to vows of obedience, silence, poverty, humility and chastity.”

Arthur laughs, finding the whole absurd. He can't see what poverty, chastity and humility may have got to do with respecting one's gods. 

As long as you see to the rituals that mark the calendar; as long as you preside over those that protect your own family, Arthur thinks you should be all right. 

You drink to the gods, sacrifice to them, hoping all the while they're really there and not locked in some quarrel that'll never stop. Hoping they actually do exist. 

A chieftain wears the armband that marks him out as as the leader during religious rituals. Arthur wears one when he stands for his father. That hasn't made him likely to vow he'll stay poor or chaste. 

And yet... These people seem to believe purity necessary to honour the gods. He sobers quickly. “Does Merlin believe in your religion?” Arthur asks. 

Gaius is quick to supply a translation. Edwin isn't equally quick to answer. His words, as translated by Gaius, are, “He's never disobeyed any of the rules that regulate our establishment. He's a good boy.”

That's a way of being evasive and Arthur recognises that. The reason for Edwin's reticence on the subject of Merlin's faith remains obscure but Arthur doesn't want to press. Not when he's sure that Edwin sees him as an enemy and might lie as a consequence. Anyway Arthur's got to do some thinking and he won't let anyone influence his train of thought.

He merely hopes that Bergvid didn't really try and sell Merlin's chastity to the best bidder. Arthur doesn't regard chastity in any particular light, but if Merlin does honour it, then Merlin might have seen him as an enemy. Someone that would stop him from keeping promises he intends to make. Maybe one day.

He resolves to speak to Merlin about it. With this in mind he rises, Gaius imitating him, and bids the two men, freedman and slave, stay.

When he gets back to his chamber, Merlin's there.

He's sitting on the floor, legs crossed under him, inadvertently playing with the collar they've put on him. When he looks up and sees Arthur, he doesn't haul himself upright, like a proper slave waiting to do his bidding would. He doesn't flinch as he did when Arthur first brought him here. No, he smiles and raises a hand in salute. It's a casual gesture, one you would reward an old friend with.

As he raises his head, Arthur can better see his face. Merlin's eyes have lost the haunted aura of the first day. His smile is genuine, a little toothy. A smear of butter sits on the corner of his lips, gone unheeded, proving that Merlin listened to Arthur and really had breakfast. 

The little inattention to personal cleanliness, makes Arthur's stomach tilt and caparison, however stupid that may sound. Arthur's nearly climbs into his mouth and won't resume its place however hard Arthur tries reminding himself that the sight of a dirty Merlin is not wholly out of the ordinary.

Feeling as he does, Arthur smiles back inanely, even though he's come here with the intention of seriously tackling the question of Merlin's fears and expectations. Wanting to understand the nature of Merlin's belief system and maybe of Merlin himself. All those things that can't be communicated through a gesture or a few stilted words learnt by heart.

Arthur's plan flounders right that moment. He just crosses the room to go kneel right opposite Merlin. He does it even though his side protests the action by twinging. 

Arthur's body is not the only one to complain, for so does Merlin, his hands going to Arthur's side immediately, covering the site of the wound by way of a splayed palm

Arthur keeps his smile on, to show Merlin that he's all right, wipes at the butter smear on Merlin's face, and thinks only of gifting him with news Merlin must think of as good. Something that will give him a measure of happiness. 

“Your friend Edwin is here,” he says. And the he repeats it more slowly. “Edwin is here.”

Merlin freezes, his eyes widen, and quick as thought, he's out of the room.

*****

 

It's past dinner time when Merlin comes back. Noises have dulled or stilled and the fortress is quiet, preparing for a new day. 

Arthur is looking at his half-full plate when Merlin walks up to him. He doesn't say anything. And he looks different, angry.

There's a tightness to his mouth Arthur hasn't seen there before. His loquacious warbling has been silenced too, never mind that Arthur never understood Merlin's words. He finds he misses them. 

Merlin's standing there, one arm crossed across his chest and clutching at the other. 

When Arthur pushes his plate towards him, saying, “Eat,” Merlin refuses, though he could use some food and he's never refused any so far. He's never shown himself to be a fussy eater either. If anything, Merlin has shown a propensity for eating his weight in food. 

Arthur tries again. “It's pretty good. Pickled cod. And if you don't like fish there's bread and butter.”

Merlin ignores the food and takes to pacing, shaking his head from time to time.

When it gets so dark Arthur starts to yawn, Merlin turns the bed down for him. Arthur helps himself up by putting a hand on the chair, and once he's safe on his feet, he crosses over to the bed. “Something's happened. I know it has. Is Edwin not your friend?”

Merlin fastens his eyes on Arthur's mouth as if he's trying to slow the ratio of his words by force of will alone. 

“Friends? Arthur suggests. "Friends are two people...” He taps his chest and then Merlin's. “Who know each other and are close.” He twines his own fingers together. “And have a fun time together.” When he thinks he's gone overboard miming closeness and that perhaps he's led Merlin to believe he's hinting at another kind of intimacy, he stops. He gives an impression of a laugh then. Throwing his head back and snickering loudly. 

Perhaps he's gone overboard with that too.

Merlin is trying not to laugh at Arthur's antics now, his mouth twitching as if he's losing his battle against his sombre mood. His eyes soften, and the light in them is very warm. It could make hardened hearts go tender. That look is breath-taking and fully directed at Arthur.

When he's stabbed by that look, Arthur almost loses the thread of the conversation. “Are you and Edwin friends? Or not?”

“Edwin?” Merlin shakes himself from his reverie to ask. 

“Yes?” says Arthur. “Are you?”

“No,” says Merlin. He rubs at his scalp, taps his foot and tips his chin up. _“Edwin cellariarius est._

“Gaius told me that he was the cellarer,” said Arthur. “Or do you mean to say that he's your superior and therefore not your friend?”

“Yes,” Merlin says on reflection. “I am--” he begins, but then stops, lacking the vocabulary to define what he is. “Ego debeo eum.”

“You owe him?” Arthur scratches his head. “Why, how?”

“For food,” says Merlin. “For a House.”

And Arthur understands. “So you don't like him? You're not happy he's here? You'd rather not...”

 _“Edwin magister meus est.”_ Merlin ducks his head. 

Arthur would prod more, ask whether Edwin taught Merlin the Latin he knows, and what else he did for him, but it's clear Merlin doesn't want to be asked. 

So Arthur puts himself to bed. It's high time. His limbs ache and he sighs when his body is cradled by the mattress beneath him. Having a rest was a good idea. “Thank you, Merlin,” he says. “That'll be all.”

Merlin covers him properly no matter how much Arthur bats his hands away. When he's done, he bobs his head in approval and walks to the door, body less stiff than it was before.

“See you tomorrow,” Arthur says, head already sinking in the pillow. 

Merlin says, “Tomorrow.” If Arthur didn't know that Merlin finds Arthur's tongue difficult to use with any precision, he'd have said his tone was weighted. As it is, he calls that a pronunciation fluke and lets himself rest.

He looks forward to tomorrow and all the things he counts upon doing anyway and knowing Merlin will be there makes him fall asleep with a smile on his lips.

 

**** 

The first thing he does upon waking is get himself dressed and into the courtyard. 

If he managed the day before there's no reason he can't do it today. More, not having to catch up with his father, he's had time to put a tunic and tabard on, which means he's wearing more layers than he had on during his first trial outing.

Clad as he is, his chain mail shirt doesn't chafe. Which is a great plus and puts a spring to his step.

He makes it to the courtyard feeling distinctly better than he had the day before. 

With a satisfied smile on his lips he summons one of the men at arms. The man in question is  
a portly individual called Sven. Sven is not only strongly-built body but also has a quick eye to balance his raw muscle power. 

The best test there is for Arthur's skill and prowess. “Pick up an axe,” Arthur says.

“Pardon, My Lord?”

“Pick up an axe; we're sparring.”

Arthur can read the concern in the man's eyes. The hesitation in his body language. Sven's mouth opens to express an objection while Arthur firms in a thin line.

“Now would be good.”

The man pivots and goes to retrieve two axes and two shields from the stash reserved for the guards.

He comes back and hands Arthur one of the shields and a two-handed axe.

It's the best of the two and Arthur makes him swap. He doesn't want to find out whether he can hold his own against an opponent impaired by all possible disadvantages. He wants to find out whether he's lost his edge. And if he has, he wants to analyse the his mistakes and find out how he can improve.

He wants to know whether he's still objectively good.

They both step away from each other, the ground firm beneath their feet.

They raise their heads, salute each other, and go for it.

With an unexpected roar, Sven lifts his axe. Arthur's eyes widen in surprise while the hoarse shout reverberates. Such a shrill battle cry is generally avoided during practice.

Sven is holding his weapon overhead in both hands and coming at Arthur with a fury that is usually reserved for the battlefield. He's caught in the glow of the sun shining behind him, emitting a war cry. Like this he sounds and looks like a berserker.

Arthur heaves his shield over his head and Sven's battle-cry rises in pitch as he rains blows over Arthur's shield.

Under the onslaught, Arthur sags and stumbles, almost driven to his knees. By gritting his teeth and locking his muscles, he manages to push Sven off and back and to lift his own weapon high enough to initiate an attack. Fingers closing around the haft for optimal grip, he positions his axe for his first strike. As he does a sense of both weakness and power overcomes him. 

It's a bit of both. Being able to do withstand Sven is the first step towards getting back on his metaphorical warrior feet. But lifting a weapon he's been trained to wield since birth has never been so hard. Or less ineffective. And that tears at his pride.

Sven parries. There's a hollow clang of metal on metal, then a hiss like frozen ice melting under the onslaught of fresh water.

They dance away from each other, Sven leaping powerfully backwards, Arthur more slowly, his strength seeping from him the more he tries to hold on to it. He knows that if his father were here, he would put a stop to this but Arthur can't call it quits.

This is a test of his fighting power.

Arthur sags though he has to straighten the moment Sven comes at him again, swinging his axe down. Arthur ducks in time to avoid a blow that would surely knock him down. He's quick enough to jump out of the way, but the action, and the muscle work required to pull it off, drain him of further strength and makes him feel light-headed.

When another blow descends, Arthur digs his heels in and stops it with his shield, but the blow has less of an impact than he expected. This allows him to wheel and stagger sideways even while he whirls around to renew his attack. But there's not much strength in his arm and he swipes at thin air.

“Too wide.” Sven laughs.

Sven's laughter irritates Arthur no end. But he can't indulge in the feeling. He must stay alert if he wants to win. 

The strategy pays off. He ducks quickly enough when Sven's axe begins its umpteenth descent. He sidesteps fast enough for it to go wide of his head. But Arthur's tired and he can't close in on his opponent and end this duel like the victor he wants to be.

He's breathing fast, sweat running into his eyes, and his side gives off dull waves of pain. He puts some distance between himself and Sven to give himself time to recover.

At the same time he notices two things. And one of them distracts Arthur from the other: Merlin is alternately having words with Edwin and watching Arthur fight. He turns his head this way and that with every move of Arthur's though his head is cocked in a way that allows him to listen to Edwin's words.

Once again curiosity licks at Arthur's senses but he can't hold onto it because Sven, item two, is throwing the axe at him. Arthur has no doubt that a big, seasoned warrior like Sven can hit anything at the distance separating them. At this point there's not much Arthur can do. Sven wasn't certainly counting on him getting distracted by Merlin and has thrown as though Arthur was fully into the fight.

As the axe hurtles towards him, Arthur knows he has one of two options. He can flatten himself to the ground or raise his shield and hope it'll do its job.

Arthur goes for the latter. The axe embeds itself in the quivering, splintering wood, almost demolishing it. 

Since it's now useless, Arthur lowers the shield, frees the axe and hurls it back, aiming a little to the side so that it will bury itself at Sven's feet.

It does and Sven backtracks the little distance necessary to avoid the loss of any toes. “Fair's fair,” he says. “You win.”

“We're even,” says Arthur. Sven could have killed him easily and they both know it. Besides he feels like sitting down and not getting up. That's not exactly how a victor feels.

“Uh, no,” says Sven. “That last throw, you aimed for the ground at my feet. If you'd wanted to you could have done me in, My Lord.”

They argue some more until Arthur dismisses Sven with a wave of the hand and a pained grunt. Sven lopes away whistling.

Thirsty, Arthur staggers towards the well, brow beaded with sweat and body protesting his  
misuse of it. His axe's handle is dragging in the grit but Arthur is smiling, feeling some of his power has come back to him even though he's wiped out for today.

He did last the whole fight long. A careful training regimen and he should get back to being the warrior he was. Recovery is that much closer than he thought.

As Arthur slumps over one of the steps circling the well, he lets his axe clatter to the ground. When Arthur looks up at the sky, Merlin's there, looming over him, mouth shaped into a pout, eyes sad. He looks conflicted.

“I know,” says Arthur, wiping at his brow. “I over-taxed myself, but it felt good. Just knowing that I could felt good.”

Merlin draws up a pail of water and offers it to Arthur. Arthur cradles his hands and scoops up a handful, drinking avidly. He does this two more times and sighs. He feels better already, his side less inflamed, his muscles feeling worked out but not too badly. The sensation makes him feel alive. Giddy with his own potential. 

He grins widely to convey his happiness to Merlin, to tell him that there's nothing much amiss with him, and that Merlin can stop with the mother-henning.

But Merlin's sombre mood doesn't lift. It's as though someone's died on him and Arthur can do nothing to make him smile. His own smile flattens; he drinks some more to give himself something to do and promises himself he will find a way to get the to the bottom of Merlin's mood.

Merlin just looks at him as if something bad has happened to Arthur, while he has only taken part in a training sparring session. Nothing as dramatic as Merlin seems to think.

“It's a good thing that I tested myself,” Arthur finds himself saying. “I thought you didn't like it when I was ill. Now I'm better.”

“Better,” Merlin repeats ducking his head and producing a sad little smile that doesn't apply to any of what they've said. He adds a strings of words to that and Arthur has a feeling the explanation to his mood is in them. But they're in Merlin's own tongue so they're lost on Arthur.

Merlin seems to sense Arthur's confusion and crouches lower so he's level with Arthur, who's still sitting with his back to the well. For a moment Arthur thinks he's trying to say something. But he doesn't. He touches his hand to Arthur's face, his fingers fanned out, the tip of them cool, and looks at him with eyes that would move Arthur to do absolutely everything.

However Arthur does nothing epic: he just turns his head to the side to make the most of the contact.

That's when Edwin appears, loitering in the background, a disapproving expression etched on his face. 

Arthur pushes Merlin away though he does it gently. Merlin stiffens, turns, sees Edwin and stiffens some more. He straightens and gives a shrug, then looks down at Arthur.

Arthur knows there's something there, that some kind of communication passed between Edwin and Merlin. “You can go talk to Edwin,” Arthur says, waving his hand at the man. Somebody has given him his cross back. “If you want to.”

Merlin stays put and says his name, “Arthur...”

 _“Tu potes ire,”_ Arthur says again. “You can go.”

Merlin worries his lower lip, lingers, gives Arthur some kind of meaningful look Arthur can't fathom, and then scurries away, avoiding Edwin as much as everyone else.  
Arthur spends the rest of his day either resting in the great hall or surveying the property with Gaius, Edwin trailing after the latter without missing an occasion to shoot glares at Arthur. 

The light outside is dimming and Arthur's about to call it a day when a group of travelling merchants nudge their carts into the courtyard.

Arthur makes an effort to get himself downstairs; traders always bring products that the people in the keep will need. Much more so in winter. Sending them away would be counterproductive. Arthur could delegate, but he doesn't see delegation as empowering or befitting his role. 

With his father absent, running the keep smoothly is part of his duties. It would be a queen's role but since his mother's dead, the duties concerning the administration of his father's property fall to Arthur. 

However tired Arthur is, he can't avoid this. So he wends his steps towards the courtyard, where he meeds the head merchant, a raider who does some farming on the side and peddles items of all kinds, both those originating in raids as well as those that are a product of farming.

After the first few words are spoken the trader gets friendly and tries to show Arthur his wares. Arthur pushes Gaius forward, who can better establish whether the merchant's prices are fair. Gaius nods and Arthur tells the merchant he can show his products to the garrison. Seeing in Arthur's clothes and choice weaponry an indicator of wealth, the trader starts listing all his products to Arthur directly.

He's trying to make a customer of him.

The day's activities having taken their toll on him, Arthur's about to politely cut him off when he sees the furs and the dagger. The furs are of the costly kind but sturdy. They're not for show. When Arthur approaches the cart and buries his fingers in the pelts, he smiles. Just the kind he likes.

The dagger is piled on top of the furs. The blade looks sharp. The weapon itself is not new – you can see it in the way the ox handle is worn and dented – but when Arthur lifts it, he knows the balance is true. 

It's a good dagger, maybe not fit for a king or a rich chieftain, but most men, especially those who have a good eye for value in the absence of frills, would be proud to own such an object.

“I'll take the furs and the dagger,” says Arthur, keeping the second item. The furs will have to go to a seamstress before he can do anything with them. “Talk to Gaius to settle on a price. As for the rest, I hope you can find good business here.” 

Arthur pockets the dagger and leaves Gaius to obediently nod and fend for himself. The trader, for his part, looks as though he's just struck gold. He doesn't know Gaius.

Arthur finds Merlin in his room.

His mood seems to have changed yet again, this time he's gone from sombre to contemplative. When he entered the room, Arthur caught him looking in the distance and though Merlin is now attending to him, he can see that the mood stays with him. 

Arthur shakes Merlin off but does it with a smile. Merlin looks confused and Arthur gives him the dagger. 

“It's for you,” he says, when Merlin steps back. He doesn't appear scared at Arthur baring a blade at him (the weapon came with no sheath), but creases line his brow and it's clear he can't make head or tails of Arthur's gesture. 

“It's for you,” he says again. “Slaves have the right to bear a knife. And this is a fancy knife. Besides, I want you to be able to defend yourself. _Defendere?_ I know you can and will defend yourself. People sometimes may be harsh with thralls and this... this may come in handy.” He pushes the blade at Merlin. “Take it, please, as a gift.”

It's the first time since knowing Merlin that Arthur's sure Merlin has understood his intentions fully, for he takes the gift, blade lying flat on his palms and says, “Thank you.” 

His hands are trembling and his throat is working. A hint of tears wells up his eyes but the smile that Merlin gives him overshadows any trace of sadness.

Merlin gets more elaborate in his answer, but he's once again switched to his own tongue, and Arthur can only appreciate the soft tone of it. “I thank you,” Merlin finishes, talking very slowly as one does when trying out an unfamiliar language.

And that's it. 

They get back to their routine and Merlin busies himself with fussing over Arthur, perhaps more than he's ever done before. 

When it's night and the stars are shining, he puts Arthur to bed. And Arthur doesn't have it in him to drive him away on the pretext that he's a grown man. Because that's all it would be: a pretext. 

When Merlin's leaning over him, Arthur's fingers close around Merlin's wrist.

They share a look and Arthur comes close to pulling Merlin down and kissing him. Comes too close to asking for what he's told himself he should never ask for.

For a moment that lasts as long as an intake of breath he sees himself doing it, sees himself tugging Merlin down on the bed and covering him with his body. Sees himself pushing Merlin's breeches down and kissing him from throat to cock.

The moment passes, and if Merlin's aware of it, there's no change in his behaviour. He just tucks Arthur in and squeezes his shoulder, leaving Arthur to fall asleep after a lot of tossing and turning.

 

**** 

 

A whimper wakes Arthur. It's such a strange sound that it does more to make him sit up than a shout or bellow would. Living in a fortress gets you used to all sorts of noises coming from the men and women dwelling in it. It doesn't make of whimpers familiar noises.

The light in the room is dim because the oil lamps were snuffed out earlier on to allow Arthur to sleep. But a wash of moonlight lets Arthur see.

Most of Arthur's room is as he left it before falling asleep, but there's a change. A figure is huddled in a corner, shoulders hunched, knees drawn up, an arm extended over a knee. Arthur doesn't need more light to know it's Merlin who's sitting there.

A blade glints in his palm. It's long enough to tell Arthur it's not the dagger he gave Merlin earlier today. The blade is long enough to belong to a proper sword. Arthur's breathing comes to a stand still.

Then he shakes himself, kicks the blankets aside and rights himself, yelping, “What are you doing?”

Another whimper follows.

With Arthur on his feet; Merlin drops the blade and edges over to him. When he reaches the bed, moonlight frames him and Arthur can see what occasioned the whimpers. 

Merlin's wrist is covered in blood, his skin bathed in a red that looks dark brown in the night. The tattoo that was there is almost all scratched out, gone with a layer of skin. 

Arthur startles, thinks of the possible reasons that might have led Merlin to harm himself, and shudders in self-revulsion when he thinks Merlin may possibly have tried to end his life because Arthur's bought him. With Arthur's sword. With the rune blade that Arthur loves so much. Because Arthur didn't only buy him, he kept him.

There's no time for speculation now though; Arthur peels his own bandages off. The first layer is perfectly clean and he uses that to staunch the flow of blood seeping from Merlin's wound. The material gets soaked through but while there's quite a lot of blood, Arthur sees that Merlin's not gone for the vein.

In fact the big blue vein meandering from Merlin's wrist to his forearm hasn't been punctured. It's perfectly intact. Rather, Merlin's made a mess of the tattoo design, mangling the skin where a circle used to contain a complicated pattern of whorls.

Merlin says, “All right, fine,” and then “I'm well,” and smiles too, but Arthur can't believe that he's all right at all.

With a hiss and pained lip twitch, Merlin wipes at the blood, wraps the bandage around his own wrist, makes a little bow of the ends and says, “Fine.”

Arthur shakes his head vehemently. “You're not fine! You-- You hurt yourself. Is it me? Was it me? Do you want to sit down? I can call Alice for you-- I--”

Arthur has been expecting to be shot down since Merlin smiled and said he was fine. To be laughed at for fussing. What he hasn't been expecting is being pushed back, made to sit, straddled and kissed on the lips.

The kiss consists of a firm press of lips, as if Merlin means it. It's a determined kiss but a closed mouthed one. 

However Merlin's passion becomes apparent in the other moves he pulls. He fists his fingers in Arthur's hair, guiding him into the kiss, his thumb brushing over Arthur's cheek, again and again.

His tongue slips between Arthur's lips, both bold and shy. Bold in the gesture, shy in the outcome. 

It takes every ounce of Arthur's control for Arthur to stay put, not to let his hips snap forward when Merlin slides his hand down Arthur's bare chest. 

He wants to guide Merlin's mouth to his, so the kiss can deepen further; he wants to grind against Merlin and take his pleasure. But he doesn't. 

What he does is draw back and say, “No, you can't be wanting this. And you don't owe me anything. You're not mine to use.”

“Yes,” says Merlin. “Yes,” he insists, appropriating the word as though it belongs to his own language.

But Arthur can't help but fear that this is not right. That it's not what Merlin wants. “No, Merlin, no. You--”

Merlin guides Arthur's hand to his neck and Arthur's eyes widen in the semi-darkness. Where he's been expecting to feel the coarse metal of the collar, Arthur finds only skin. Unfettered skin. 

Between evening and now Merlin's found a way to shed his collar. The task would have required cutters or a file and Merlin doesn't own either article. It means Merlin must have asked for help from someone willing to risk antagonising a prince and breaking the law for him. That he has an ally. Or that he's stolen the tools required for the task.

Arthur can't say he's angry. He's not. He's glad. Glad that that thing's gone. But the absence of the symbol doesn't change the reality of Merlin's position. Merlin's still a slave even if he's managed to get rid of the collar. “I know,” says Arthur. “I understand, but, no, Merlin. I can't.”

Merlin tilts Arthur's head up and looks down into his eyes; Arthur goes slack jawed at the desire in his gaze. “Yes,” Merlin says, pushing his hips at Arthur, making Arthur feel that he's hard, as if that's the only way he has to get the message through. “Yes.”

''You want this?'' Arthur asks. “You really do?

''Yes!'' Merlin says emphatically. 

Then Merlin kisses him again, his mouth softer this time, his lips more pliable. The kiss is wet, with Merlin's tongue darting softly inside Arthur's mouth. 

Arthur's lower body twists as the kiss makes a thrill chase down his spine. As Merlin cups Arthur's jaw, threading his fingers in Arthur's hair, Arthur's heart fills to bursting.

“Yes,” Merlin mumbles against Arthur's mouth and Arthur stops struggling, stops trying to put a stop to Merlin's kisses, a deep rumble in his throat signalling his surrender.

Knowing he's won, Merlin rocks against him, his breath quickening. 

Arthur starts responding, unable not to, touching Merlin, learning about the lines of his body, the span of his hips, pushing up into him, as hard for it as Merlin is.

Even as they rut against one another, Merlin doesn't let off kissing him: he swirls his tongue around the tip of Arthur's before plunging his forward once more. 

They play chase, play tag, the kiss deep and heavy, Arthur pushing his tongue between Merlin's teeth even as Merlin moans and twists on top of him, kindling a fire Arthur doesn't want to tame anymore.

At no moment does Merlin display any shyness. He eggs Arthur on with his mouth and his hands and his body. He's not always perfect; his kisses can be sloppy and his touches seem to be aimless sometimes, but there's no moment during which Arthur feels that he's not wanted. There's not a moment hesitation on Merlin's part.

Each of Merlin's kisses is heartfelt and every touch of his is curious, passionate, reverent and eager. They all break Arthur's heart. That he can be this giving and to Arthur of all people is a wonder. A wonder called Merlin, a boy from far away, and who's in his arms now for all the wrong reason. “Love you,” says Arthur, knowing his words will fall on deaf ears.

The fact that Merlin won't know both saddens him and makes him brave.

But then his bravery evaporates the more Merlin touches him.

When Merlin's fingers brush across Arthur's crotch, Arthur exhales sharply. He meets Merlin's eyes to find them unfocused under leaden lids. The moment changes. The air between them fills with static; with expectation.

Merlin pulls back and Arthur almost reaches out for him again. Does until Merlin smiles to show that he's not going anywhere. He only stands up and kicks off his worn boots, lifting off his tunic and pushing down his breeches.

Arthur takes Merlin's cue; he has to do nothing more that pull down the trousers he sleeps in to get naked.

When Arthur is, Merlin straddles him, only this time they're bare and each time Merlin shifts Arthur feels pleasure lick at his insides. 

It makes him harder, more light-headed. 

That's when Arthur completely lets go, surrenders all thought, pulling Merlin down, pushing himself on top of him, and pressing him into the soft mattress. 

Merlin hisses and hitches his hips right into his, a wordless exhalation on his lips. His eyes shine in a way Arthur's never seen before, even in the dead of night.

Arthur's fingers clutch at Merlin's sides and Merlin catches his mouth with his, spreads his leg and cups his arse, driving Arthur forwards. 

At that, heat unfurls inside Arthur, painful as the slash of a blade, bright as the summer sun. It shoots through him and makes him tremble, makes him press lower, hips seeking a body to fill. 

He enters Merlin like it's easy. It's sleek and wet and hot, Merlin clutching at his length and enveloping him in a snug and carnal embrace. 

A thought flits through his brain for a second or two: that Merlin must have prepared himself for this before he came to Arthur, or this wouldn't be possible, but the thought evaporates like dew at dawn in the face of what they're doing.

Before homing in, Arthur sighs, all other sounds swallowed by Merlin's mouth.

Merlin opens his mouth to a kiss that Arthur turns to with all he has, just as Arthur presses down and into him, starting a rhythm that hopefully will give them both pleasure. 

Merlin arches his hips into him, a hand on his waist, the fingers of his other one spanning the flesh of Arthur's upper thigh.

Arthur's muscles lock as they rock together, as sweat breaks out on their bodies. They cling one to the other. Fingers scrabble for purchase. Their breaths become short and fast.

Arthur's long, slow thrusts become more like snaps, stuttering little motions he can't fully control. His heart starts racing even as his lips wander and cover Merlin's torso in kisses.

Their mouths meet as their rhythm mounts, when Arthur drives himself in with a little more force. 

Merlin's cock is flush in his hands when Arthur gives it short pulls that make him spend over Arthur's knuckles.

A quicker thrust, an exhalation, the glow of eyes in the dark. Arthur breaks from Merlin's messy, uncoordinated kiss to bury a grunt of pleasure in his throat.

They cradle each other through the aftershocks, breath evening in the quiet of the night.

Merlin's arms around him, a kiss to his forehead, a strange word whispered in his ear, and Arthur falls asleep, body still curled around Merlin's.

When Arthur wakes, Merlin's gone and with him all traces of his stay. The sword, the bandages, the clothes strewn around. 

And as if he has the gift of foresight, Arthur knows that Merlin isn't anywhere close. 

 

****

 

When Arthur wakes, Merlin's gone and with him all traces of his stay. The sword, the bandages, the clothes strewn around. 

And as if he has the gift of foresight, Arthur knows that Merlin isn't anywhere close.

The people in the keep are stirring; Arthur can hear the noises they make while they get on with bustle of their every day activities. 

They always get busy at this time of day.

Afforded some light, Arthur searches the castle for Merlin, though he does so without raising the alarm. If he does, he'll have to admit that he's lost his slave. And a runaway slave is never treated well once found. He'd rather Merlin be free, be gone, than have him suffer.

Still, he searches. He searches to prove to himself that he's mistaken and that Merlin really isn't gone, that he's in the keep. To prove to himself that Merlin hasn't left him without a word but has simply had to see to some chore. Somewhere else. That he'll appear at noon to warm Arthur with his presence.

Once he's searched from towers to dungeons, Arthur becomes sure that Merlin has indeed left without a word. Left him with the sense memory of an action – the feel of another's body and the taste of their earthy kisses – Arthur can't explain. The word 'why' rings in his ears.

Not able to silence that voice, he crosses the courtyard to go look for Merlin outside of the perimeter of the keep itself. 

Unfortunately, just as he's stalking through the courtyard on his way to the stables, he's stopped by the trader from the day before. 

“I have no time to buy any of your wares, I'm afraid,” Arthur says short and quick.

The trader waves his arms about. “It's not on that head that I approached you, My Lord. It's because one of my horses has been stolen.”

Arthur pats his pockets, but he has no silver on him. He takes a ring off his finger and drops it into the trader's hands. “I think this will compensate you for your loss. I'm sure one of the stable boys has left the stables doors open last night and lost you your horse. I'm sorry for that and promise it won't happen again.”

“But,” the man tries to say.

“I'll not hear a word more of it,” Arthur says. “You've had compensation. Your insistence on this matter is an insult to my honour.”

The trader backs away with a bow, clearly thinking prudence the better part of valour.

Finally, Arthur makes it to the stables. He tells one of the boys – a lanky one that reminds him of Merlin in the way he's all uncoordinated limbs – to saddle a horse. “And be quick.”

The stable-boy nods and hastens to perform the task, placing a half-folded blanket on the closest horse's back, positioning it over the beast's withers and sliding it back into place. 

While Arthur stamps his foot the groom ties the loops of the blankets to fastener tabs attached to the saddle ring. Then he bustles off to get the saddle.

Arthur is blowing air through his lips like a malcontent child when Gaius overtakes him. “Sire, I've been looking for you.”

By the way Gaius is looking at him, Arthur can tell that Gaius knows something. How he's found out is more of an enigma, one that is cleared when Gaius says, “I couldn't find Edwin anywhere.”

Of course he couldn't. Arthur doesn't think Merlin one for leaving friends or mentors behind. “Not a word on that. To anyone!” he says low and serious.

“But Arthur!” Gaius begins, ready to argue his point. “That's not how--”

There's no time for Gaius to use his debating skills, for the groom has saddled Arthur's horse and led him out by the bit. 

Arthur promptly follows him outside and mounts, before leaning down and whispering to Gaius, “I'll go look but wait for my word before you commit to anything – before telling anyone.”

A benign look morphs Gaius' features and makes them appear more relaxed. “I will do as you say, but do not be led astray, Arthur. He may have objectives that do not collide with yours. I don't want you to come to any harm.”

“I won't,” Arthur says. “And he wouldn't hurt me. I have to think that even if he were capable of it, he never would.”

Gaius places a hand on the saddle, as if to stop Arthur, who's chomping at the bit more than his horse is. “I had a word with Alice. And she told me what the boy did to you.”

“It was in self defence.” Arthur tugs on the reins and stops his horse from prancing sideways. “He wouldn never hurt anyone if his life wasn't at stake.”

“Maybe Merlin values his freedom as much as he does his life.”

Arthur can see where Gaius is going with that, what he means. Merlin's been less than amenable on one occasion already. Who's to say he wouldn't lash out once more if he thought his life and freedom were threatened.

That would also imply that Merlin's lied to him. That he's been nice and attentive to Arthur, bedded him even, to give him a false sense of security, to make him think Merlin loving and pliable. And while that certainly is a possibility he must rationally entertain, Arthur doesn't want to think of it. Not when he can still taste Merlin on his lips.

“He probably does. All men do. Yet I still trust him.” Not wanting to add anything to that, he spurs his horse forward into a gallop, once that forces the guards manning the bridge to lower it quickly. 

He makes it out of the fortress and into the mist without allowing himself any other thought but a general plan of action. 

He begins by scouring Adelsö and its pine-clad rocky hills. He heads out there first because it's the likeliest hiding place, especially in this weather. Trees always allow for shelter and cover. Forests can be bountiful even when food elsewhere is scarce.

The mist is thick as soup and cold, wrapping itself around him, seeping into his bones. The sun is pale and sickly, like one of the dying. 

Tendrils of fog brush Arthur's limbs, sprinkling his clothes and face with ice-cold dew. 

Despite this, Arthur soldiers on. Yet he can't help but notice how the fog today has an odd glow about it, a white coat of lighting shining dully where it's at its thickest, getting brighter and brighter the closer Arthur gets to it. 

Curious as to the source of this preternatural brightness, Arthur pushes his horse forward but all it does is get him lost.

The horse rears and whinnies nervously while Arthur tries to pinpoint the shapes in the light and his position relative to the geography of the area.

The horse doesn't seem to care about these minutiae and sidesteps to avoid being led in the thick of the mist. Arthur puts his knees to its flanks but his horse won't hear of being led. It turns around, getting Arthur even more lost than he was before. He has no idea of where he is relative to the fortress and the sea, where north lies or where south is.

“Curse it,” he spits.

The white shroud he's enveloped in is so thick Arthur can barely see his own hand in front of his face, or his horse's ears, for that matter. It's so thick it muffles the very sound of the horse's hooves on the hard packed ground. It's so thick that, although he must be drawing near to burial mounds of the dead chieftains, he can't see any of their raised graves. Usually they mark out the area from afar.

He can't press forward. If he tries the horse will throw him and that'll make backing away even more difficult. Retreat gets more of a hardship when sporting broken bones. He lets his mount retreat, relying on its animal instincts to get them out of their present quandary.

He's right; the animal knows how to avoid the danger area and get them back onto the fields they started from. The fortress looms in the background; a beacon of safety.

Arthur dismounts and decides to let the horse graze while he hunts. The sun's high enough for it to be lunchtime.

As he hunts, keeping shy of the forest that's wrapped in mist, he gets into the zone. All he cares about is snagging that hare; all he hears are the noises typical of the forest. Like a man used to it, he turns his head this way and that to make out all the sounds that spring from the heart of the undergrowth and tell them apart. He studies the forest for traces of what he's looking for.

He does find something that will help him break his fast.

Hares leave tracks; they beat the same paths. Finding fresh tracks, means prey is near, Arthur knows that. He searches for naturally funnelled tracks and gets lucky pretty soon in spite of the kind of weather that should be sending hares scurrying for cover.

With hands numbed by the cold, he sets a loop made of intertwined glass blades. He chooses a spot close to the patch of ground he found the hare tracks on, and secures his loop by tying it around a nearby branch he lowers for the purpose.

As he waits, it starts snowing. He sits on a felled tree trunk while flakes dance around him and he wraps himself in the folds of his cloak to stay warm. It's getting colder, even here on lower ground.

He wonders how Merlin is coping. He's got a horse but if Edwin's with him – and Arthur entertains no doubt as to this -- then he's got to share it, which means he'll have to tramp through the snow at times.

Arthur doesn't think Merlin's exactly built for this weather and he can't swear to his ability to survive in the wild. 

Not for the first time he wonders at the life Merlin led in his homeland and the set of skills he possesses.

Can he even make it out of Adelso?

His thoughts then start running in another direction, namely on whether Merlin planned this, including their night of sex together, or if he just decided that he couldn't stay after what they'd done.

He asks himself whether he behaved as he should, if he asked clearly enough whether Merlin meant it when he pushed it so that their relationship got suddenly physical. If Merlin went into their night together thinking Arthur was owed sex or whether he wanted to have it as the slew of his 'yes' answers seemed to proclaim.

Arthur doesn't believe he was unclear. He did try to stop Merlin. Plus, when Merlin doesn't want something, he makes it known, if not with words, then through his actions. 

Arthur’s aching scar is a standing testimony to Merlin refusal to bow his head. So that means that Merlin slept with him of his own free will. Or he'd have skwered Arthur once more. 

The thought reassures him even if it's bittersweet with the taste of loss. Though that probably also means that Merlin planned his escape before lying with Arthur.

In that case, Arthur can't help but read what happened between them as a goodbye of sorts. As Merlin's farewell.

Arthur massages the nape of his neck. Once he's done away with most of the kinks in it, he throws his head back to sigh at the sky.

He has no idea what he should do now; what course of action he should take. He knows he can't force Merlin back if Merlin doesn't want to go back. However much he wants to assure Merlin that he'll treat him right, he knows he can't.

He can't free Merlin on a whim. That's not exactly how the system works. Merlin hasn't bought his freedom yet. Gaius did through years of service, by showing how biddable – though he put his foot down time and again – and useful he was and is.

He can't ask for Merlin to bide his time like that. And Arthur can't act like he's ready to watch Merlin grow old while he waits for his freedom to be handed to him. Not with his father breathing on his neck.

Besides, If anyone has put two and two together and realised Merlin's escaped – and taken another slave with him – and if that got to Father, Merlin wouldn't fare well. It actually doesn't bear thinking about.

Just as what would happen to Merlin if something happened to Arthur. Not if Arthur died before his father did and Arthur couldn't have it decreed that Merlin was to live and be free.

So far Arthur's let himself live in a bubble. He's let himself enjoy Merlin's company and Merlin's brightness without thinking of the future. He should have been more sensible. He should have known that he couldn't have a caste-breaking relationship like that. 

Yet Merlin... Merlin's given him something Arthur could never have said no to. He can see it so clearly now.

Despite all the good reasons to let Merlin go, he does want to look Merlin in the eye one last time and ask why. Know why. He wants that. He needs that. If he's been duped...

He wants to know.

With a click and a twang the snare he set snaps shut and the bough he twisted it around shatters. Arthur scrambles up and lunges for the animal, delivering a quick killing blow that sets the creature at rest. 

He lights up a fire, skins and cleans his hare, puts it on a spit and waits for it to cook, making sure all juices run clear. To ascertain he won't be eating an undercooked meal, he cuts into the thickest meat, and when he's sure no piece is in a semi raw state, he lifts the spit off the fire and uses his knife to slice himself some morsels

He eats quickly enough though he chews laboriously, without tasting anything. He'll drink something as soon as he finds a stream that isn't frozen, but that isn't a problem. This island is rich in water.

His food tastes like sand though and he can't get any pleasure from satisfying his hunger. Water would wash the lingering taste away at least. But that's for later. When he's done eating, he cleans his hands the best he can, douses the fire and mounts back on his horse, hoping it's had occasion to enjoy its meal more than Arthur has.

As he makes for the burial mounds of the old kings, his search continues. Stone settings surround the mounds that are overgrown with fading, frozen-stiff greenery. The earth at his feet is black, covered in patches in snow that fails to linger.

The burrows are raised high enough to offer some kind of shelter and Arthur has come here thinking that he might have found a runaway hiding between them. He doesn't find anyone there. The place is devoid of any human presence. Though that's obviusly true, he feels as if he's being watched.

It prickles at his skin, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and him turn around more than once in the expectation of finding someone there. 

He never catches a wink of anything every time he does whip round, so he stops and calls himself stupid and superstitious. 

As a kid he used to believe this place haunted, but then again, he only did because he thought the dead could rise from their graves. Ever since becoming a warrior he's learnt better. The dead never walk the earth again.

A crow caws loudly and hops on the ground, picking at the black terrain and snatching up a worm for itself. 

“Cheers,” says Arthur, looking away in mild disgust. It's not the image itself; he's hunted and seen predators hunt often enough to know that's life. It's how eerie the image is in contest that makes his skin crawl. It's how the sight throws him. A wind rises and it sounds like voices murmuring on the breeze. The fog that seemed to evaporate as he cleared the forest makes a reappearance.

Seeing as there's no one around, Arthur makes it back to his pawing horse, mounts and turns it around. 

Leaving the creeping mist and the burial mounds behind, he rides up the side of the mountain facing him. He doesn't find anyone on top, not even when he scouts the caves and the rocky ledges, but from this high he has a fairer view of the island. He can see the dotted fields and the lake far behind. He can see everything.

And he can get an idea as to where else to look. He climbs on top of the outlook tower a  
former chieftain built and lets his eyes roam. As compared to what he saw from the outcrop, the vista broadens to encompass every side of the island. There's no trace of a rider. No trace of two fleeing men.

When he gets down, he steers his horse towards lower ground and re-enters the forest from a different direction.

By the time he's in the thick of it, daylight has given way to dusk, night birds coming out to sing their song. Arthur chooses to settle down for the night.

He makes a fire, hunts himself dinner, lies down and looks at the stars that have appeared the moment the sky cleared. He huddles in his cloak, keeping his horse close for warmth. It grazes and nuzzles the ground close to Arthur's face. Arthur has to gently nudge it away so as not to be licked like a carrot though he does it with a smile on his lips.

The sense of companionship his mount briefly offered fades.

He falls asleep with Merlin's name on his lips. 

When he wakes up the sun is up and there's a blanket draped over him, one of those he generally keeps in his saddle bag but can't remember packing in the day before. 

When he wakes up it's to the imaginary presence of someone snuggled in behind him, a hot body pressed to his, though unlike the blanket, the presence is entirely imaginary. A phantom. His memory is playing tricks on him. It thinks it's yesterday.

Or perhaps someone's made it here. 

A random farmer might have got into the forest seeking wood for building purposes. Or a famished villager from Birka might have come here to poach. Yet, as his eyes can testify,  
there's no one but him around. It wouldn't be entirely absurd. But he's as alone as was on the day he was born.

After a cursory wash in the stream, he manages to shake off the feeling of a presence hounding him. Though he does check again and again that he is, in fact, alone. 

Muttering curses at himself for how jumpy he's being, he packs up his belongings, snuffs out the fire, rakes up his cloak, which he puts on to stave off the pungent cold, and makes for the harbour. 

He lands on Bjorko island when the sun's still young and proceeds to search it too, both the hilly southern part and the northernmost area. He follows the line traced by the defensive earthwork, which stretches south to the hill fort again, and then finds himself close to the place he started from.

It's almost night again and he's famished when he stops. He bows his head and lets his shoulders slump in defeat. It's time to come to terms with the fact that he won't see Merlin again. 

However, he hasn't really processed this home truth; he just knows it deep down in his bones like those old crones who tell the future by casting rune stones know of approaching doom.

Yet before he says his own goodbye there's one last thing he must do. He visits Bergvid's establishment, the one he bought Merlin in.

Bergvid seems overjoyed too see him, rubbing his hands together and ushering him to a corner seat. He snaps his fingers and one of his serving maids brings Arthur mead. “What can I do for you?” he says. “We haven't got another slave sale on tonight. But in a few days...”

“I'm not interested in that,” says Arthur, not touching the mead he's been offered.

Bergvid frowns lightly, then he perks up. “I can find you another virgin one, for sure. Those monasteries; there's lots of young things in them. And I can find you girls as well if you want a bit of variety.”

Arthur thumps his hand down. “That's not--” he spits harshly. “That's not what I'm looking for.”

Bergvid flails his hand about. “Then I fail to see how I can help you.”

“I want to talk to the man who captured Merlin.”

“Who?” asks Bergvid

“The sl-- the man I bought.”

“Oh,” says Bergvid, “you want to talk to Gunnar then.”

“Yes,” Arthur answers, sweeping a glance at the common room, “if he's here...”

“He is.” Bergvid hales one of the girls and sends her looking for Gunnar. Five minutes later she comes back with fiery beard in tow. His tunic is unbelted and flowing free. It's a different one from the one he had on the day Arthur first laid eyes on him. This one's sturdier than the first and of decent quality. He's made a profit since then. And used it too. Gunnar's face is about as red as his beard and he doesn't look happy to see Arthur, telling him he was otherwise occupied. In deference to Arthur's station, he takes his place next to Bergvid all the same.

“You want something of me,” Gunnar says. Bergvid elbows him and Gunnar adds, “My Lord?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, looking the man in the eyes as a warning not to lie. “I want to know everything there is to know about Merlin.”

“Who's Merlin?” Gunnar looks to Bergvid for direction and Bergvid whispers the necessary information in his ear. “Ha, orchard boy,” he says. “Magic boy.”

Arthur snaps to attention and all his muscles freeze. “What did you call him?”

“We snatched him when he was tending the monastery's orchard so we called him orchard boy. He gave us the hardest time.”

Arthur raises the palm of his hand and waves it about in denial. “No, I meant the other thing.”

“Magic boy?” says Gunnar. “That's how he gave us a hard time. He saved one of those robe wearing high priests of theirs and knocked three of us flat before we could lift our battle axes. To get him we had to rush him, climb on top of him and knock him out. Then we bound and gagged him.”

“And that's why you took him?” Arthur guesses. “Because he resisted?”

“Boy needed to be taught a lesson. Then we realised that he he worked for the monastery and was likely as pure as those singing priests who think everything's that got to do with the flesh is a sin. We knew how to pitch our sale from there.”

Arthur's throat works as he swallows the bile that rises in his mouth at the thought of what they wanted to sell Merlin for. “I see.”

Gunnar, who's started talking liberally, continues, “But we couldn't have kept him if our sail maker, a woman from Kaupang, hadn't told us how to put his magic to sleep. See, there's a group of people on the boy's island. They follow ancient customs. It's rare but some of those who do often have magic. Our sail maker, Ingun, had heard about it and knew how to inhibit it. She's a wise woman and knows these things. So she told us what to do. How to stop the boy's power from flowing free.” Fear blinks in and out of Gunnar's eyes. “And we did it quick. Before the boy could turn against us again.”

“I see,” Arthur says, wanting to get to the bottom of what had been done to Merlin. “What did you do to him?”

“Bound his magic by inking his skin.” Gunnar smiles and Arthur half wants to crush his windpipe and half wants to press him for more information. “Worked like a charm.” Gunnar smirks, winking at Bergvid and the serving girl in turn. “After that he became less aggressive though he would still try and act out to make a point. Yet he quickly saw how that was not to his advantage.”

Arthur snaps and drags Gunnar up by the collar. “If I hear you talk like that again, rest assured that I will have your hide.” Arthur's spittle flies. “And don't think I won't. I'll blithely pay your family compensation money. I'm wealthy enough to satisfy just such a whim.”

Gunnar gulps loudly, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, though his hand goes for the belt he isn't wearing and for the weapon that isn't there.

To avoid trouble Bergvid steps between them and separates them. 

Stepping backwards, Arthur nods and cleans his hands on his tunic. Bergvid eyes the door and cocks his eyebrow up significantly. 

Then the serving girl from before puts herself between them. “Let me escort you out,” she says pointedly. 

Arthur doesn't want any harm to come to her so he complies.

He's shepherded out of the establishment without having been able to ask the most important question of all. Where Merlin's from.

But he supposes he'll never get told. Not after his threats and his display of rage.

That night he sleeps alone in his bed. And though he's almost always slept alone, it comes across as empty to him in a way that has nothing to do with its occupation statistics.

Another day passes by and then another. 

Arthur still goes looking for Merlin, scouting the island, its environs and even the terra firma, but the quota of time he spends in the wild looking for Merlin diminishes the more the odds of finding him do. Arthur just hopes Merlin can make it back home, that he can survive the journey.

When the wind howls death and the seas toss a storm Arthur tells himself that Merlin has his magic and that if there's one person on this earth who can make a crossing without any help and while being a fugitive that's Merlin. 

When snow storms buffet the island, Arthur's hope dwindles and his searches intensify.

On one occasion he almost freezes to death himself while patrolling a mainland bog for signs of Merlin. It would have made for a solitary, grimy, soulless death and that's when Gaius tells him he's got to stop. 

Arthur doesn't listen but he does grow more and more resigned. His outings become fewer still.

At times he mourns Merlin, thinking he can't have survived the journey back home through a hostile land. At times he picture those hardships, they even come to him in dreams, and he fabricates a world of his own devising in which Merlin overcomes all those obstacles.

Winter grows harsher and father comes back. He's quashed his vassal's defiance and found himself a wife in the shape of the lord's daughter. Her name's Catrina and she's beautiful. She's not as old as Arthur's father, but neither is she a young bride. She was widowed and went back to her father because her husband's family didn't make her welcome after the man's demise. Just in time for Arthur's father to snatch her up and offer her family marriage. An alliance. A way to make sure her father won't entertain any rebellious thoughts in future.

Father is too busy with her to remember Merlin or to care about the loss of two slaves that were never his.

Winter fades and gives way to spring. Tress blossom; flowers bloom.

Catrina is pregnant, sitting on Arthur's mother's throne. 

Arthur looks away and tries to picture the life Merlin's leading now that he's away. He imagines him happy and that brings him a kind of joy he doesn't want challenged. Not by the reality of the keep and not by his own pessimistic misapprehensions. By thoughts of the myriad things that could have happened to him on the way.

Merlin lives on on his green island.

He does in Arthur's mind and will never stop doing so.

 

****

 

“Come and have a look at the baby, Arthur,” Catrina says while she holds her squealing son up.

“Yes, Arthur,” Father adds, “It seems to me you have had enough of those stupid language lessons for today. They won't help you with the raid you're so dead set on going on. And it's high time you paid attention to your brother.”

Arthur stands, leaving his new servant's side. He goes and takes his brother from Catrina, tucking the baby under his arm and supporting his head in his hand. 

“Hello, Mordred,” he says, walking to and fro to give the baby something of a ride.

Father doesn't smile like Mordred does but he says proudly, “He will be a great warrior and leader.”

Arthur puts his chin on the baby's hand and shifts him so he can rest against his chest. His reply is a non-committal hum.

“He never cries,” says Father. “That's already a sign of character.”

Mordred flails his fists about and kicks his feet, shaking off the sock covering his foot. When a pink foot is exposed, he laughs and stares and tries to grab his toes as though it's all very fascinating.

Father changes tack. “Why do you think learning the language of Brega will be useful?”

“I have my reasons.” Arthur gives Mordred back to Catrina without facing Father. “Tactical ones.”

The shipyard is teeming with shipwrights, carpenters, woodcarvers and other workers bustling to and fro, some of them slaves, some of them freedmen who've displayed a knack for the shipbuilding trade. 

The sheltered corner of the harbour dedicated to shipbuilding moves to the loud rhythm of a construction site.

Work is decidedly in full swing with the banging and pounding of hammers, the ringing of axes and the grating of saws.

The place echoes with noise. Sail makers hum; hammers clang. There's the hiss of metal being cooled off to make rivets and the slap of paint brushes used to decorate the bow.

Planks, masts, boards, filings and shavings lie propped up this way and that, destined to supply or refurbish the ships docked in the harbour. The ships themselves lie in various stages of building and dot the jetties like ants. 

Woodcarvers are finishing the last touches on the keel bands. Another sail boat is being fitted with a dragon prow. The frame already in place.

On one other ship the strakes are being lashed to the frame using flexible lashings, the lower edge of each pliable plank overlapping the upper one.

The breeze is saturated with salt from the sea and heavy with the the smell of the tar used to insulate the longships' woollen sails and the hemp that goes into making rope yarn.

Arthur stops by a ship and stands there contemplating her unfinished beauty. Her shallow draft is designed to allow the vessel to be steered up river, deep within enemy territory, and to make for fast disembarkation. The hull's reinforced with beams so as to withstand mast pressure. Her narrow width promises speed and manoeuvrability.

It's been a while since Arthur first stood on the prow of one of those, waiting to disembark, jumping off and wading landwards to go and fight to gain renown, to establish his name and dignity as a warrior. 

He remembers tasting the thrill of fear and anticipation, remembers being eager to test his mettle. There's a fondness to the memory that is likely strongly linked to the passions of the stroppy youth he'd been before he was made a true leader.

His elevation to the title of prince, his being presented to the assembly of the people as such, have modified his outlook for sure.

After a few of those youthful victorious expeditions, Father pronounced him to all intents and purposes his successor. The crown assured after Arthur's uncle demise. Ever since that acclamation, Arthur's life has been worth more, not something to be lightly risked in raids that don't always fetch much. 

Fortunes can be built on a raid, but so can disgrace. Taking part in one such foray would have seemed highly imprudent.

Now things have changed.

Seeing him, the expedition leader hails him with a head toss. Hengist is bald and fat but used to sailing and raiding. He waddles across the length of the ship but jumps off it efficiently enough.

“Hello, Hengist,” Arthur says. “How's the shipbuilding faring?”

“Well,” Hengist growls, “we'll be off in two weeks.” Hengist spits, probably to show how unfazed and optimistic he is. Or just to put Arthur down, who knows. “Are you going to join us then?”

“I gave my word.” Arthur's expression sours. “I will be there.”

“I thought your stock had laid off going on actual raids,” Hengist says. “I thought you were all so high and mighty, with a crown on your head, that you didn't need to prove your worth.”

“Every man needs to prove his worth,” Arthur answers, ignoring the barb underlying the words. “So we're setting off in two weeks?” He looks up at the summer sky, at the sun cooking the back of his neck, tinting it a flaming red.

Hengist does the same, as if he's betting on its shining as fully and as strongly when the time comes to leave. “Before Summer ends.”

“We should set off before the summer squalls season or we'll encounter bad weather.”

“I know what I'm doing,” Hengist reminds him, toddling closer, so he's in Arthur's space, tilting his head to study Arthur's features for a flinch. “The weather will hold and even if it doesn't that won't be much of a problem. We're sailing along the coastline, not cutting through. This way we won't be on high seas in case of storms.”

Arthur frowns deeply. “But we'll be so close to the coast, we will be spotted. And if we are, people will pass on the news and we'll find strong opposition on landing. Waiting for us.”

Hengist pats his side where a dagger is incongruously dangling from his tool belt. That's the place his sword will be when they attack. “And we will be ready to meet steel with steel.”

“We'll lose men,” Arthur points out, thinking any leader will be keen to spare his screw. Not so much because he thinks life precious but because assembling another after having lost one isn't an easy feat. Warriors will think a leader who loses his men a harbinger of bad luck. Ill repute can be built on less. “And the booty itself won't be as rich as it would be if they had no forewarning of our coming!” Arthur says, trying to appeal to the man's greed for earthly riches.

This seems to Arthur like simple strategy, but Hengist spits a loud 'no' in his face. “This is not your crew, Princeling. You came late to it. With the good season half gone. So now you'll take my orders.”

All that Hengist is saying amounts to nothing less than the truth. Arthur came into his determination late, the winter months having given way to summer before he quite made up his mind. He still doesn't like any of it and not just because he hasn't got the command.

He nods his head but makes one more token effort, “If we crossed the North Sea--”

“My word is final.” Hengist heaves himself back on board. “I'll let you have word as to when we heave up anchor.”

Word comes to him three weeks later, a full week after he starts expecting it.

Parting from Father is easy. “Since you will take part in this expedition, distinguish yourself and bring honour to our name, son,” he says, eyes boring on Arthur as though he's meaning to say something even through pursed lips, hand clamping around Arthur's elbow hard enough to hurt.

Arthur juts his chin out and gives a slight head tilt. There's more he wants to say, but Catrina saunters in the background, her son in her arms, and Arthur's words dry on his lips like so much dust.

Father ducks his head, puts more pressure on Arthur's arm, but then lets go and pats it.

That's their goodbye.

And so the journey begins.

Journeys such as these aren't easy. Comfort is sacrificed in the name of swiftness. Habits are broken and toil becomes a companion no matter what station in life one might belong to.

The ship is completely open so they all have to brave the elements. They sleep whenever and wherever they can. Forty men huddled together in close quarters. Such proximity makes animosity surface more easily.

Arthur has a place between the thwarts that he's come to cherish, but most of the crew lament and quarrel over their sleeping accommodation. 

The ship is narrow enough that a fistfight becomes a matter of concern. 

Most evenings Arthur wraps himself inside his sleep sack, watching the stars and hoping they shine just the same in Brega. Lying on his back, an arm across his middle, he contemplates them, thinking of foreign skies and the people who might be looking up at them.

All the while, he tries to distance himself from his companions and their petty quarrels, but can't help overhearing the men's crude jokes – which do bring a smile to his face for all of their crassness – or their disputes. 

One day two oarsmen have a row over a piece of salted meat and a measure of milk (that's likely gone curdled). One pushes the other, a punch is thrown, and the next thing Arthur hears is a splash and a cry of ,“Man overboard!”

Arthur kicks out of his sleep sack, puts a foot on the the ship's gunwhale and dives, swimming out to the man who's drowning. Being born close to the water, he's always been a strong swimmer, so he reaches the man fast.

The oarsman fights him at first, clinging to him and dragging him under. By virtue of muscle work, Arthur manages to pull the man back on board but not without having swallowed bucketfuls of water himself.

After this incident the men show him more respect, but Hengist becomes even more belligerent, flashing Arthur ferocious stares, side-eying him when he's not glaring, and purposefully keeping him out of all discussions relating to their strategy.

Arthur accepts it but only for the sake of the men's lives. Hengist is already a poor enough leader.

As Hengist promised before leaving, the weather keeps. Obviously, it's more luck than Hengist currying the favour of the gods. 

The first days of their voyage are characterised by fair weather and calm seas. The sun shines on them and seems to be casting a good luck charm on them.

Arthur hopes it will hold, for the men's sake. They, meanwhile, nod their heads at Hengist. Impressed.

On the sixth day of sailing a morning wind comes up from the North East. It increases to a gale, making the passage much more than simply rough. 

Predictable this late in the summer.

The navigator shouts over the roaring sound of the wind, “We'll have to lay to and hope to weather the storm.”

Hengist agrees, giving the proper orders. His face falls though and Arthur can see he was expecting to make it without a glitch, the fool.

Bringing the vessel into the wind is a risk. The storm lashes the ship, batters it, the deep greens and blues of the waters advertising their depths. 

The jagged, moss covered coastline in the distance becomes a symbol of survival. The beams groan; the timbers screech in the howling wind. The sea is dark and choppy, surf spraying them incessantly.

Arthur strains to keep standing and has to work to crack open an eye. Tottering sidways, swept by the ship's motion, he latches on to a rope, looping it around his wrist, and clings on for dear life. 

The carpenter clutching the ship's sides next to him yells, “You were right. We should have crossed instead of going for the coastline. That way we would have made it to destination already.”

Arthur grimaces but doesn't say a word to defy Hengist's authority. It's the last thing they need.

Hengist might have heard but even he isn't so vain as to try to avenge his honour in the midst of this mayhem.

Arthur's fears turn out to be grounded: they find shelter in a cove between two rocky headlands, sheer cliffs surmounted by luscious greenery framing their vista. But there's an observation tower sitting on the promontory and even from out at sea, Arthur can see that it's in use. That they've been sighted and they're sitting ducks.

“This is bad news,” the carpenter says. “We'll be spotted.”

“Yes,” Arthur admits. “All coastline settlements will be warned of our arrival,” Arthur says over the voice of the wind, water droplets driven into his mouth by the wind's fury. “Prepare to fight.”

The pelting rain and mighty wind squalls soften up with a final crash that scours the coastline. 

After that danger is over, but becalmed seas envelope them into motionlessness, stalling them. At first they don't mind. The placid, flat seas and the absent winds are a nice respite after the force of the storm. The doldrums allow them time to regroup, sleep off the fear the storm woke in them. 

Arthur lies on his side and paints imaginary tendrils on the wood-work, then he draws features he remembers as if he last saw them yesterday. He flips onto his side, abandoning the idle pursuit.

Not that they have anything better to do.

After two days of the sun beating down on their backs and no shade except for that provided by the sails, they put all men to the oars. 

Arthur lends his own effort for hours on end, till blisters form on his hands. "To go with the sword callouses," one of the men says, a trader in winter and raider in summer.

The rowing works and the ship ploughs the seas, cresting the waves until they reach their destination.

The first to sight the men gathered on the headland is the boy sitting astride the dragon prow. “Look there, to the north,” he shouts and points.

Those who can shift to larboard to be able to better see what the boy's talking about. 

Twenty to thirty men are collected on the top of a green-clad promontory, the emeralds and browns of their garments almost one with the background. 

It's too far to tell whether they're armed or not, but Arthur can clearly see the most prominent among among them step forward. There's menace in his movements.

The man in question is a tall and reedy individual, mostly just a speck of colour from this far.

One feature though catches Arthur's eye: he's holding a staff a-loft. A staff that isn't made entirely of wood as Arthur might have expected. 

Wrapped around carved whorls of a lighter colour wood a spheric orb of glowing beauty rests. 

For a moment Arthur is enticed by the ethereal light it seems to shine all around it. Like a beacon from wrecked mariners, like a fire lit on the altars of the gods. But then the man slams the staff down on the ground, hard, and the enchantment breaks. The earth roars; it cries out.

Clouds gather; thunder rolls.

The winds raise a cruel chop that batters the longship's hull. It's worse than the squall from a few days before. Water slops on board. Lightning closes in, the boom of thunder following on its heel.

A storm the likes of which Arthur's never witnessed before breaks upon them. The gale drives the water forward. It rips the sails. 

The longship rides over tall waves and plummets down deep troughs. It's a miracle they don't founder, but each roller brings her so low in the water Arthur's always expecting her to sink.

Driven forward by the elements more than by the hand of man, the ship tosses and rocks. 

When the sky cracks, Arthur knows a moment of awe, of simple wonder at the fury of nature.

He's almost disassociated himself with what's going on, a spectator taking in the roaring winds, the churning waters, the creaking timbers and leaking ribs, when someone shouts, “Make for that beach, make for that beach.”

Then the man on the promontory pierces the ground with his staff. Lightning hits the steerboard. And without it they can't steer. The mast splinters. 

Rudderless, the men in a panic, Hengist strapping himself to an oar bank, they head for the shoals. Those rocks could pound the keel into pieces.

But then the ship cracks both above and below the waterline and the shoals become the least of their problems.

The rope binding Arthur to his place doesn't hold. Arthur hits the water. Fortunately it's still summer and it's not as cold as it would be in winter, when a sudden plunge could kill a man in minutes. 

To stay alive Arthur kicks with his feet, strikes out with his arms, fighting the rough seas, crawling forwards towards the shore, waging battle against the waves. 

With the current against him, it's hard work. The sea rages beneath him, making advance the hardest of goals. Swells multiply, tossing him this way and that, turning him around, making him lose his sense of direction, making him go under.

Swimming at an angle to the shore, he tries hard to keep his head out of the water, not to swallow. 

Dragged down by the axe strapped to his back and the sword hanging from his belt he loses both, keeping only the knife hidden in his boot just in case he should make it to dry land. Hostile territory.

Inch by inch he draws closer to the rocks even while he strives for the beach. When stroking on gets so hard he's almost ready to call it quits, he attempts to go with the current, resting his arms in the troughs between the foaming crests, using them to push himself forward when he's riding on top of a wave. One arm out of the water, then back down. He can barely lift his head out to breathe because he keeps heading right into the big waves. 

His arms weigh like stone; his brain gets numb with weariness. He can't think straight. Thoughts of home and Merlin and childhood crowd his mind. His throat hurts with how much salt water he's swallowed. It's like he's downed fire. A fire eater. He sobs. His chest gasps for a breath, cold water crashing against it. 

His strength's fading fast; yet he's accomplished something. He can see the beach that lies between the promontories, the very beach the longship was making for before it was rent apart. 

It's so close to him, hope blooms bright inside him. Makes the ordeal look possible. 

Gathering what strength he still has, he surges forward, slamming into the waves, fighting his locking muscles, his own weight pulling him down.

He's almost there when he goes under.

 

**** 

The dream brings him down, pulling him under its coiling wraps, plummeting him to its depths, until it doesn't anymore. He surfaces. 

His body aches as if it's been battered or trampled by raging bulls. His throat is scraped raw. It most definitely hurts to swallow. 

Was he in a fight? That would explain why it feels like he's taken a beating. But it doesn't explain the burning in his throat. Is he ill? 

Aches aside, Arthur doesn't feel too bad. His head isn't thumping under the pressure of a headache nor does it feel any less than clear. He can breathe fine and he's neither hot nor racked by cold. All clear symptoms of illness he dosn't think he's displaying.

He slowly opens his eyes. He's lying on his back, coarse blankets pinning him down.

The bright light flooding in from the window at his side makes it impossible to make out any shapes past a mass of blurs. 

At first everything appears as either blinding brightness or deep shadows. He shuts his eyes tightly, waits a few heartbeats, and opens them again. It takes a few seconds for him to focus his eyes. As his vision clears, the objects around him begin to take shape. 

He's in a room that looks like it belongs to a farmhouse. There's a bed, the one is lying on, a table, an array of stools of different heights and shapes. Rafters punctuate the ceiling; herbs, either dried or lushly fresh, hang from them. A chest has been pushed against the opposite wall. It's bulging open. That's all the furniture there is.

The whole structure is made of wood. 

But what arrests Arthur's gaze is the man poking at the fire in the hearth. He's turned away from Arthur, his back to him, but the shape of those shoulders, those hips, the way that body moves, as if the man can't control the movement of his limbs as relative to the rest of him, make him think of none other than Merlin.

It cannot be, of course. It cannot. Out of all the men in Brega for him to chance upon... The odds of it happening so quickly would be very slim indeed.

Arthur takes stock of his surroundings, concentrating on the muffled noises coming from outside, wanting to stay in the moment if only to be able to believe for a while longer that he's found Merlin again.

He sits up, making no noise, then as emotionally ready as he's going to get, he produces an odd sort of gargling noise. With his raw throat words seem like a bit much at the moment.

The man standing by the hearth turns and Arthur's heart stops in its tracks, reprising its rhythm only after a handful of seconds. His heart stops because it is Merlin. It's Merlin but with longer hair and a little more weight to him, indicating he's well fed now. It's Merlin with his stormy blue eyes that smile just as much as his lips ever do. It's Merlin, the memory of whom Arthur has made a part of himself.

Moved beyond words, Arthur allows his gaze to fall along the full length of Merlin's body, taking in all the changes and cherishing all its qualities.

“Oh,” Merlin says. “I was sure that you'd be out a little longer. You weren't in that good of a shape when I found you.” 

Arthur smiles inanely. Finally understanding the words that come out of Merlin's mouth is like a great gift. As Arthur smiles, Merlin comes over. He sits by the bed, perpendicularly to Arthur, his feet a little apart, his head bowed as he stares at the thumbs he's twiddling. 

“Naturally I was a bit surprised to find you there. To think that... That you were there,” Merlin says. “Actually you. The real you.” He shakes his head and smiles to himself. 

 

It's clear he thinks Arthur still doesn't understand him. “I do know that you were probably there to loot and pillage, and I had to do a whole lot of convincing to get my people agree to let me take charge of you, but it still seemed like... Like a wonderful present.” He pauses again. His brow creases as if he's gathering his thoughts, which he probably is. But then those lines soften and he smiles. “Also, I'm sorry for almost killing you. Again.”

Arthur gasps, collects his memories, and puts them together. The man on the cliff, the shipwreck, Merlin's magic. “I'd have done the same,” Arthur croaks, careful of his voice and his choice of words.

Merlin jumps up and back. “You can speak my language!”

“Learnt it from a man originally coming from your parts,” Arthur says before he starts coughing. “I had a year and a half to.”

Merlin doesn't reply. He moves across the room instead, and this certainly buys him time  
to accept this new change to their relationship. Silently, he lifts a pot and ladles up some liquid. He walks back to the bed and offers Arthur the ladle. “Goat milk,” he says. “From Lassi.”

“Who?”

“My goat.”

Arthur drinks in small sips, cupping the ladle Merlin's holding, their fingers barely brushing. Already his throat feels a bit better though swallowing still stings. “I haven't come to prey on the land,” Arthur says. “I--”

“Arthur.” Merlin's expression's pained; he casts his eyes down. “Arthur, you can tell me the truth.”

“That's the truth,” says Arthur, pushing away the ladle. “I came looking for you.” He smiles. “I wasn't expecting to run into you like this, and quite so soon, but I meant to search the kingdom for you. Hoping you'd...” He can't quite bring himself to say it. Can't find a way to express the very natural feeling he's suppressed since Merlin left. His sense of loss and those better feelings Merlin planted in him. “Hoping you'd found a way home.”

“I have,” Merlin says gravely. “But you can't expect me to believe that you didn't mean do some looting while hanging out with a group of... of pirates.”

“It was my only way over!” Arthur says, voice rising from a low croak to a louder one. 

Merlin rises to go and put the ladle back where it belongs. With his back to Arthur, he says, “And you want me to believe that you'd have turned your back on your men for a hope? Because I don't.”

Arthur puts his feet down on the floor. He gets dizzy for a moment or two but the sensation lifts. He feels surprisingly whole despite the seas' rough treatment. “No, I'd have parted ways with them. Made sure they made it back alive, without taking part in any raid. I couldn't have stopped that raid from taking place but I wouldn't have played a role in it. I meant to leave in the dead of night, after having given some instructions to the men on board.”

Merlin pivots and comes back to him, settling on the edge of the bed once more. “All right, I can accept you meant no harm.” Merlin's finally able to raise his eyes to Arthur's. “But why did come looking for me?”

It's Arthur who drops his gaze now. “If you don't know that...”

Arthur turns to face the window. It's square and larger than any he's seen at home though by no mean as enormous as he was led to expect by Merlin's turned up nose at the one in his chamber. 

“Arthur.” Merlin grabs him by the chin and turns his face towards him. Arthur can very well keep his eyes down. “I think I may know. But I never understood a word you said. Bar a few here and there.” Arthur steals a glance at him out of the corners of his eyes. “I know where I stand but I'm not sure I got you right all the time.”

Heart squeezed as if in a fist, Arthur asks, “What did you think of me then?”

“At first I thought you bought me for... To have me,” Merlin says, voice stiff as his whole body, then the stiffness goes to be replaced by a proud expression. “And I didn't want that.”

Arthur hisses in a sharp breath.

“So I stabbed you,” Merlin continues, the proud moue disappearing to give way to sad eyes and a contrite expression. “And I'm so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone. Not if they didn't attack me first and you hadn't... I got that later. Mulling your actions over in prison.”

Arthur nods thoughtfully. “You did everything you could to help me afterwards.”

“That's why I stayed.”

“Wait,” Arthur says, putting a hand on Merlin's thigh, his fingers tightening their hold even though he wasn't planning for that to happen. “You stayed to play nurse?” 

Merlin's ribcage expands with an intake of breath. “I stayed because I wounded you. And I couldn't leave you until you were well.”

Arthur remembers when it was that Merlin left. The day after he'd sparred with Sven. And sees. He scouts back against the wall, gathering his knees to himself. “You were kind to.”

“No,” Merlin says loudly, rending the peace and quiet of the afternoon. “I didn't mean it that way. I was feeling guilty. Who wouldn't--”

“Merlin.” Arthur tries to stop the flow of Merlin's words because they hurt. Quite as much as the wound Merlin gave him did. “You don't need to explain.”

“I do, stupid,” Merlin says, “because it seems you don't want to pay attention to my actual words.”

Arthur opens him mouth to claim that's not true but Merlin starts again before Arthur can say anything to the point. “But as I stayed on, things changed for me. I not only found out how wrong I'd been thinking you'd have taken advantage. I started to like you. Too much. Far, far too much. Too much for a man in my position. You filled me with slightly maddening thoughts.” Merlin's grin is fresh and blinding.

Arthur feels his heart lift. He picks out the words that seem to mean the most to him and cherishes them. Runs them over and over in his mind. They make him experience a giddiness that he's never felt before. Not even when Merlin kissed him or showed him his affection back in Adelso. Not even when they had sex. Because before misunderstanding and confusion loomed over them. “So when you... When we lay together, you meant is as...” He feels blood rush to his face. When he started that sentence he didn't mean to go fishing but now it sounds like that's what he's doing. 

“I thought you wanted me and I wanted you, so I took the initiative,” Merlin says. 

Arthur has to ask at this point. It would probably be better not to and it's not easy, especially since he doesn't want it to be telling, to indicate how much this all means to him, but he needs to. That's what's prompted him to go look for Merlin in the first place and that's what's been on his mind ever since he last saw him. Among other things. “Then why did you leave?” 

Merlin fetches a sigh. “Because I couldn't not,” he says. “Because I'd promised I would the moment it became possible. And that was before I ever met you. Because I was a slave, Arthur.”

“I'd have never--”

“I know,” Merlin says. “I know. And I know I did something horrible to you.”

“What?” Arthur starts. “You never did anything horrible to me.”

“Yes, I did.” Merlin worries his lower lip, till a droplet of blood surfaces. “When I had sex with you.” 

Arthur feels something similar to a cold sweat breaking on his skin. “You did it to buy time. Knock me out so you could escape.”

Merlin jumps up again, looking horrified. He flails with his hands as if pushing away the thought. “No! I thought you got it. Not everything perhaps. But that I wanted it. And that it was my choice.” 

He pauses, paces around, the room not big enough for his suddenly active bout of toing and froing. “When I said I did something awful, I meant to say that I pushed you to have sex with me when I knew that I'd be leaving the next day. That I'd realised how it would hurt you if you knew what I had in mind. And thinking that if you had known, you'd have said 'no'.”

Arthur moves to intercept Merlin, taking one of his hands in his. “I wouldn't have said 'no'. Even if I'd known. If it was the one night you chose to give me, then I'd have taken it, all the same.”

Arthur's left himself too open. He can feel that as he watches the words sink in. In other circumstances he would never have said so much, admitted how desperate he is for the man before him, but they've suffered from the downside of silence too long for fear to stop him. A warrior always faces his fear. 

He's expecting Merlin to want to delve into Arthur's words, waiting for him to dissect them, but Merlin doesn't. Instead he leans in, fingers twitching in Arthur's hands, and slips his lips between Arthur's. He wets them with his tongue, catching them in little kisses he alternates with kitten licks.

Heart beating as fast he can remember it beating, Arthur starts giving back, nibbling, gently pulling Merlin's lips between his and sucking on them till he's got them plumping up. He doesn't use tongue or teeth, too lost in appreciating this kiss for what it is. For it having taken place at all.

The kiss doesn't stay that chaste for long. “I need you,” Merlin says, taking his mouth again in a way that forgets to be shy, forgets to be anything but hungry. He parts Arthur's lips with his tongue, swirls it it around Arthur's just as his slips his hand between them to press the heel of his palm against Arthur's cock.

Arthur feels himself grow hard and chases the contact with a forward snap of his hips. Merlin gets him with no need for words and starts giving him more pressure, pressing and jabbing his palm forward.

Arthur walks into his arms, put his lips to Merlin's throat, scrapes it raw with kisses that hide an edge of teeth.

Merlin hisses.

“I'm sorry, I—” Arthur says, licking gently at the stretch of skin he's teased. “I--”

“No,” Merlin says, wrapping hot fingers around him and tugging at his length. “It's all right.”

“I wasn't sure I'd see you again.” Arthur's s hips jerk towards Merlin, his breathing breaking up in a crazed pattern. “I went looking, but deep down... deep down I thought that that was it. That I'd never find you.”

He closes his eyes then, groans, no longer able to vocalise all the things that are making his frame quiver. 

Merlin's touch unbalances him, makes so many feelings, all of them powerful, all of them scarcely easily confined, come to the surface. He called it love once, when there was no chance of Merlin ever understanding his confession, but there's more. There's something like awe at who and what Merlin is. 

There's a jagged twisted spike that he can't name but that sours the sweetness of Merlin giving him this. The memory of that morning looking in vain for someone that would probably never come back.

There's wanting and longing. There's this imprint of Merlin that's lodged inside him. There's affection so deep it warms; there's passion so strong it shames him. Love seems too simple a word for it. 

Merlin is still moving his hand idly up and down Arthur's cock. Arthur jolts and trembles, pulling away and saying, “No, I... Is this all... Do you want it to be like this?” 

Merlin tilts his head to the side as if he's wondering what Arthur means and wants. It's not as if Arthur knows. He was ready to scour the land to see this man again. And yet now he's distancing himself from the person he most wants. The person who's taken a place in his dreams and been a silent imaginary companion for all the long months between then and now. “I want,” Arthur says. “I want to go slow. I want to remember this. In case.”

Merlin smiles and dances closer with an awkward grace that makes Arthur's chest feel too tight. He places his cupped hand under Arthur's jaw, cradling Arthur's face. “I'm not going to vanish this time.”

Arthur's heart thuds in his chest. “I believe you.”

“No, you don't,” Merlin says, “but I'll show you.”

“How?” Arthur bites on his lower lip, a gesture mostly foreign to him.

Merlin's eyes flick downward and his palm slides away from Arthur's cheek. He takes Arthur's hand instead, leads him back to bed and pushes him down. He pulls Arthur's small clothes down and casts them aside, gently kneading Arthur before taking a step back to strip himself of his garments.

He does it quickly, fluidly, leaving them in a heap at his feet. 

It's the first time Arthur sees Merlin's body in plain daylight. No darkness, no shadows, no tricks of the half-light. 

And Merlin looks beautiful to him in a way that's more than finding the sum of his parts attractive. He loves Merlin's lithe suppleness, the angles of him, the long cutting lines of him. But he loves something about him that's not simply expressed by the scope of those characteristics. He doesn't say that. 

Merlin settles between Arthur's legs, eyes cast down, chest shaking with long drawn out breaths. He reaches out to hold Arthur's cock with a hand that starts out less than steady. He strokes him, the head of his own prick pressing against Arthur's thigh and telling him that he isn't alone in this.

Holding Arthur's shaft tightly, Merlin bends, flicking his tongue against the tip in a swirl that makes Arthur buck like a bull. 

Sweat breaking on his skin, Arthur spreads his legs, throwing his head back, already pushed to the edge. Merlin pressing the flat of his tongue around the crown makes Arthur sob and grunt. 

“Gorgeous,” Merlin says and slides down to nose his way lower. He nuzzles Arthur's thighs,   
making laughter ripple out of Arthur's chest for the tickling until Merlin moves further down and all laughter dies to give way to a moan.

Merlin's lips wrapped around his hole, sucking it into his mouth, Arthur thrashes his head. He makes fists of his hands, the sound coming from his ribcage as loud and wet as the noises Merlin's making by pushing his tongue inside him. To wet him and to stretch him. To make him ready.

It's all dribbled spit Arthur can feel trickling lower until it wets the sheets and firm lewd thrusts from Merlin's tongue. It's all kisses that are lewd and filthy. Long and protracted suckles that make Arthur pant as if he'll never breathe again.

A kiss to his knee, Merlin rubbing his lips against the inside of his thigh, muttered words that spread heat and fire all through him.

His jaw tightens in an uncomfortable way when Merlin pushes his cock inside him, but the expected burn, the expected pain, doesn't materialise. 

Only warmth does, a warmth that cradles him in from head to toe, that washes in and out of him and makes him experience no discomfort. Only a low buzzing pleasure that turns his insides to hot pitch.

“It's your magic isn't it?” Arthur asks even though he's on the verge of losing himself too completely for words to come easy. “You're doing this with your magic.”

Merlin stills. From his lip clench, haunted eyes and trembling arms, Arthur can tell Merlin's scared and surprised.

“You know,” Merlin gasps, even as his arms give a little, making him slide forwards, and causing his tense face muscles go slack in a grimace of pleasure. “You know?” 

Arthur feels Merlin pull back, nearly withdraw, and it's not just a physical thing. Merlin's face is a tale in withdrawal as well. To stop him Arthur clamps both legs around Merlin's middle and keeps him in place. He smiles and makes his voice gentle. “You weren't subtle. Not at all, Merlin.”

“The fog?”

Arthur can't say he was talking about the fog. “The thunder, Merlin, the thunder. That storm at sea. You conjured it.”

“Oh,” says Merlin. “I didn't know you were on board.”

“I realised.” Arthur's smile grows softer. He coaxes Merlin forward with his knees. “But you'll have to tell me about the fog.” Merlin slumps forward again. “And the sex magic. By the way, can we have sex now? It'd be a pity to waste all this.” He nudges his chin towards his chest to point at their lower bodies.

“Yeah,” says Merlin. “Yeah, all right.”

They go slowly, tasting this second chance. This second chance that seems almost miraculous in nature, even though intent went into making it possible. Even though Arthur has journeyed far to grasp it. 

Thighs press against his hips. Merlin cradled between his legs, the weight of him bearing down on him when Merlin's arms give for a moment. “Hey,” Arthur says, and adds, “Steady, colt.”

Merlin works his hips forward, the length of him thick inside Arthur. “Not a horse.”

Arthur laughs, though he goes half lidded with the pleasure that works its way up his spine  
and warms his heart. “Young horse,” Arthur specifies.

Merlin draws back a few inches. “Not that young.”

“No,” Arthur agrees, casting all joking aside. “No, just Merlin.”

He doesn't make proprietary claims because with their history it would be impossible. But Arthur calls this moment his and Merlin's kisses equaly his in spite of their past.

After going so slowly at it for a while, both their brows are damp with sweat; Arthur feels his trickle sideways towards his ears. 

Merlin's hair is plastered back to his skull, rich and black the way it wasn't when Merlin was a slave. Arthur passes his hand through those locks, luxuriating in them, glad that they're there, a symbol, like nothing else, of Merlin's freedom. 

They share a look, a moment of understanding, and Merlin turns his head to kiss his wrist.

Soon enough they go back to paying attention to their bodies, their urges. 

As they move together, Merlin's brow is furrowed in concentration, little lines that read like pain. They both tremble as Merlin strokes him inside as he takes to doing on the outside, working Arthur's prick with quick passes from his shaking hand.

A tremble travels through Arthur's shoulders in response to the direct stimulus and he arches his back. Merlin slams forward and it's so intense Arthur's vision almost whitens with it.

After that they can't keep holding on. Their hips meet fast and hard. 

It's all wet sobs and dry hisses, the stuttering of hips, frantic grabbing and gripping, the slip-slide of flesh snagging on flesh.

They grind and kiss till the kiss breaks and they come. Orgasm sobbed out silently, a hand on a hip, Merlin's breath tickling Arthur's temple, Arthur's softening cock pumping out the last dregs of his come and coating his belly.

A while later, Merlin in his arms, Arthur says, “Tell me about the fog.”

“When you came too close...” It's a whisper of a confession. “I magicked up a fog. Because I knew that if we met, I wouldn't go.”

“You didn't think I would have kept you against your will, I hope?” The light's dwindling outside, bringing with it the promise of night and a new day to follow. A new day with Merlin.

“No!” Merlin says, outraged. “But think of what it would have been like. I couldn't have let go.” A pause. "Could you?”

“I would have.” Arthur says, sweeping his hand down Merlin's naked back. “I was prepared to. Honour called for it.”

“Well, It was different for me,” says Merlin, nipping on his shoulder. “The night I went away I was so sad. I was getting my freedom back and I was sad because I was leaving you and because I'd deceived you.” 

“You didn't deceive me.” Arthur ducks down to kiss under Merlin's jaw. The skin's thin there, reactive. Merlin's arms clamp around Arthur's elbow. Arthur stops and says, “You gave me what you could. It was a night. A beautiful night.”

“Edwin couldn't believe I was so saddened at the prospect of going home again,” Merlin says. “He blamed me for losing sight of what I should do. We argued a lot.”

Arthur props himself on his elbow. “By the way, where is he, Edwin?”

Merlin rolls onto his back. “In his monastery.”

Tentatively, Arthur asks, “Why didn't you follow him? You lived there once.” Arthur doesn't say that he's glad that Merlin didn't go back to the place he called home for so many years. It would sound terrible. Especially after what Arthur's people have done to Merlin. But he's glad that didn't happen or he wouldn't have found Merlin again.

“I'm magic,” Merlin says, casting a look at the window and the encroaching darkness. “Not a Christian like the monks. I couldn't live there any longer. It was a safe place to hide for a while. My mother sent me. But now...Now I value being my own man more.”

“I see.”

“I was sure you would,” Merlin says. “You have high principles.”

Arthur hums, pleased that Merlin thinks so.

“You're blushing,” Merlin says, noticing, pawing at his thigh to slip his legs between Arthur's.

“I'm proud that you think well of me.”

“I wouldn't have ended up where I am now or then if I didn't.”

Arthur splutters. “I-- well.”

“It's charming when a warrior likes you goes all pink over a compliment.”

After that they rough-house in bed, kiss and play, Merlin's remark causing Arthur's slightly more playful side to emerge. The day dies on them.

Candles light themselves and a blanket floats over to them. “Wait,” Arthur says. “The blanket. That night. When I was looking for you. Did you magic it up for me?”

Merlin takes his lip in a wet sucking kiss. “No, I put that on you myself.”

“I-- Oh.”

Merlin gives him a smile that makes him look soft.

The End


End file.
